#i think if someone called me ''the weaker half of man'' i would bite them

[felix-lupin]

I think if anyone said to me literally any of the stuff Mind says to/about Heart in his main songs I would simply walk into the ocean

[halfmoonshines]

Marc spector x female reader

Heated argument turns into smut

I tried my best, dear nonny. I didn’t really like this but we tried.

summary; You and Marc had never fought like this before; but you'd also never made up like this.

Marc Spector x F!Reader

THIS IS NSFW. MINORS DNI.

You and Marc were both very reactive people. Usually it was directed at others, but occasionally one of you did something that absolutely incensed the other. It had never been to this degree, though.

It was all over someones roving hand at the restaurant you had been at together earlier in the evening. Some random dude grabbing your ass had turned into a broken jaw for him and an incensed argument for you and Marc once you'd gotten home.

"I think you're well aware that that was completely unnecessary, Marc."

He ran an angry hand through his hair, still furious eyes locked on yours. “That dude grabbed you, it was incredibly necessary.”

“And what would you have done if the police had been called?” You demanded, taking a step to close the distance between the both of you.

His chest was pressed firmly against yours, a hand coming up to grip your jaw. Not firm enough to hurt, but enough to hold you in place. “There wasn’t a damn thing they could’ve done to me. I did what I needed to.”

You chose not to reply, anger simmering in your veins while you just looked at him - an obvious struggle for power that you weren’t sure you were going to win.

This was cemented when his lips met yours.

Despite anything he might ever do, you were never able to resist Marc when he wanted you. His smell was intoxicating, cinnamon mixed with something darker - and his lips were enough to drive all rational thought out the window.

His hands worked quickly, one staying locked onto the side of your face and the other traveling down the expanse of your back to find purchase on your ass. A rapturous, albeit traitorous, moan fought it’s way out of your chest. You could feel his lips curl against yours in amusement.

Marc backed you up slowly, the back of your knees hitting the bed with him following you down. you don’t know if it’s because he had firmly distracted you or if you were past the point of caring; but before you could find your footing he had you half naked, shirt and pants discarded to the side of the room.

His arms were on other side of you, holding a bit of his weight and also successfully caging you in. You pulled his t shirt over his head with ease, hands traveling down to the button of his jeans to rid yourselves of them as well.

Marc’s lips slid down your neck, sucking and nipping in places that had your toes curling. One of his hands made their way to your underwear, yanking them out of the way while you palmed his cock through his own.

You both knew today wouldn’t be a day for foreplay. The anger and lust mixing in your veins to create a passionate cocktail, both equally fighting for dominance but unwilling to submit to the other.

“We’re still fighting after this.” Your words were a whisper, weaker than you would have liked.

His smile was disarming while he positioned himself at your entrance, slowly sliding in while he replied. “I can’t wait.”

With a sharp rut of his hips he was buried fully in you, walls fluttering against the warm girth of his cock. Marc was out of patience at this point, setting an angry and relentless pace. It took all of you just to hold on, nails digging crescent moons into his back with your legs shaking from the pleasure that was overloading your body.

Marc wasn’t an unkind man, but he could fuck like one. A punishing pace mixed with the bruising grip of his hands on your hips, bite marks being left on your breasts.

Somewhere in the back of your head, while you both chased your release, you thought this might not be the best way to express your feelings.

But damn if it didn’t feel right.

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[dragon-kazansky]

Masquerade at midnight

Gender neutral reader

[Masterlist]

[Previous Chapter] - [Next Chapter]

Word count: 2k

Notes: Nothing to note other than reader and Jeremy talking.

♡♡♡

Chapter Eleven - The wrong side

It happened so quickly. One moment you were out on the street watching Ben and Benedict fight, and then Jeremy had you and they were gone.

It was probably the shock that kept you so quiet when you first arrived at Jeremy's home. He let go of you so easily and walked to the other end of the room you were in. You remained quiet while you let your thoughts catch up to everything that had just happened.

You take a deep breath and turn slowly. Your eyes land on Jeremy who pours himself a drink. It's now you realise that you're in that sitting room he had brought you to through the pendant. The pendant which now hangs around his neck. Your eyes linger on it.

"Ah, you remember this?" He taps it with his finger when he sees you looking at it. You don't give him answer, but he isn't really looking for one. "It's nice to have you here in realty."

Jeremy walks over to the sofa he had sat on when you were here earlier. He smiles at you as his gaze lingers on your confused form. You stand there, arms cradling each other as you look around quietly. You do not meet his gaze.

"Sit down with me."

You want to disobey what he wants, but right now you're rather scared. You're unarmed and alone with him, and though he may be a weaker vampire, he was still a vampire.

"I won't bite.... yet."

You lift your gaze to stare at him with a pleading look. You don't even like his teasing.

"I want to go home," you say, quietly.

"I can't do that. Come, sit." Jeremy pats the seat next to him.

You don't feel like there are many options here. You move over to where he sits and perch down slowly. You keep a short distance between the pair of you, turning your head away from him so you don't have to look at him. He doesn't seem to mind that.

"That's better." He sips his drink.

It feels like you're waiting for something or someone, but you don't know who or what. Jeremy is relaxed, admiring the burning fire in his fireplace.

You look up at him.

"Why am I here?"

You see the way his lips curl into a smile. He turns his eyes away from the fire and over to you. He looks at you intensely.

"I'm going to keep you here while I pay your friends a visit-"

"NO!" You cut him off.

He grins.

"You're here. Your friend is being judged by his fellow vampires. Mads is angry. It will be easy to lure him out and get the upper hand. The dagger is back at the house and only you can use it as it should be used. I know for a fact they won't. Mads would rather tear me to shreds."

"You can't hurt them.... Just leave them alone!" You beg.

"I cannot."

Jeremy puts his drink down and stands up. He walks to stand a little closer to the fireplace, looking down into the flames. You keep your eyes on his back, watching him curiously.

"Mads is not a man to be trusted. He betrays, he harms, he thinks himself better than everyone."

"That's not true."

"No?" Jeremy looks at you over his shoulder. "He cast me out. Why does he get to sit all high and mighty in that big house, and I have to fend for myself? Because I'm a lower breed than he is?" Jeremy scoffs.

You shake your head.

"Who turned you?" You ask.

Jeremy grins. It's a big grin. He's glad you asked.

"Someone in that house."

"Mads?"

"No. Don't you know anything about how this works?" He gestures to himself. "I'm lower than a half-breed. If Mads had turned me, I'd have more social standing in our ranks."

"You make it sound like an army..."

"Is it not? Is that not what he's doing? He called upon all those he trusts and knows the moment he hears a whisper of what I want to do. Mads will not be prepared for what I have cooking. He will be outnumbered, out matched, and stranded. With Mr. Barnes now down for the count, Mikkelsen not even looking him in the eye, they will have their own distractions."

"You're tearing them apart from the inside..." You realise everything has been a play in a game you didn't even know was being played.

Jeremy smiles proudly.

"Clever, aren't you?"

"Don't patronise me."

"Oh, I'm not."

"So, why am I here? Why haven't you killed me?"

Jeremy steps closer and stands over you. You have to look right up at him. He's intimidating. A shiver runs down your spine, but you try not to let it show how uncomfortable you are. Though, going by the way he is looking at you, you think he may already know.

"I'm trying to decide what will break them more: killing you and presenting your body to them, or having your turned. There isn't a single one of them in that house that would ever do that to you, but to know I wouldn't be held back from doing so, well, that will hurt them to the core. They care about, did you know that? Perhaps even some of them love you. It's a little hard to tell."

You shake your head softly.

"Stop it."

Jeremy sighs and sits down again, this time he sits closer. You don't have any room to put space between you without getting up, but you don't think he'd let you move that far. You sit still.

"I think I'll just have you killed then. Not here though. No. I'll do it in front of them. That will really break Mads and his house full of broken soldiers."

You shake your head quickly, unable to utter a word. Jeremy stands up and makes his way over to the door. He looks over at you again.

"I'm not asking you to make a choice. If you won't stand with me- which I gave you the chance to do- and turn your back on them, then I have no other choice but to end you and get you out of the way permanently."

Jeremy exits the room and locks the door behind him. You run over to it as soon as it closes and try to pull it open, but it's all in vain. You pound your fists on the door and yell, but you get no answer. Jeremy is long gone by this point, ignoring you and leaving you behind.

Jeremy walks out of the house and is met with his army who wait patiently for him. His eyes cast over the crowd, taking them in. He holds his head up higher.

"Tonight we make our move. Their special weapon is here, and will remain with me. You have all done me so proud so far, so let us not slip up now. I have no doubt there is a break at the Mikkelsen estate. If they don't kill each other over this, then we will finish them off. I ask you to go on and prepare, for we bring the war to them today. Mads' head will fall and I shall take my place as the head of the house. I shall be Master. No other. End the traitor. End the king."

The crowd cheer and yell as loudly as they can. For months they have been preparing and gathering for war. A war that hey hoped would end Mads Mikkelsen and put them in a position of power.

Jeremy dismisses them and they break apart, heading to their needed destinations to prepare.

Jeremy turns to his right hand man, leaning in as he watches his army go.

"Bring them when we leave. Their fate will be decided by whatever choice Mads makes tonight. Do not feel the need to hesitate should it come down to it. Only you can either change them or kill them."

His right hand man nods his head and excuses himself back into the house.

Jeremy walks away, needing to make sure everything was good to go.

You have given up yelling and hitting the door. You had sunk down to the ground to let your tears fall as you realised just how trapped you were. Were they coming for you? Would they remain at the estate and wait for Jeremy to arrive? Did they know you were still alive? You couldn't help but wonder if they perhaps thought you were dead.

You wanted to scream again, but you didn't have the energy. You picked yourself up from the floor and wandered over to the sofa. Collapsing down onto it, you curled up and let the tears continue to fall. You were scared and alone. You had no one.

How was Ben? He must be kicking himself over this. You needed to see him. You needed to reassure him you're fine. There was so much you wanted to say, but couldn't.

You're not sure how much time has passed. There wasn't a working clock in this room. It felt like a long time had come and gone, but you couldn't be certain.

The door opens, but you dare not move. You hear the door close and footsteps move, but they don't come too close. You spend a few moments just listening, but when you hear no more noise, you look up. Standing there is someone you haven't seen before. You look him up and down. He's tall, well built, and looks strong. You swallow nervously.

"Who are you?"

He doesn't answer.

You don't ask again. Slowly, you sit up and just watch him cautiously. Something is going on out there and you don't know what. Your leg bounces with anxiety as you sit there.

The silence is heavy and deafening. The room feels far too warm, and not just because the fire is still roaring away. It's suffocating in here.

"Where is Jeremy?"

"He's busy."

"Can I see him?"

The man is silent. He seems to be contemplating something. You stare at him quietly. Within the next few seconds he leaves and locks the door behind him again. You furrow your brow. Was he really fetching Jeremy for you?

You stand up, looking at the door. You were about to make a foolish decision, but you didn't see what choice you had. There really wasn't anything you could do.

The door reopens and Jeremy enters the room. Alone. The door is closed behind him and you hear the sound of the lock again. Jeremy stands there with his head high, looking at you sternly.

"You called for me?"

"I- uh, yeah. I want you to make the offer again. Just once more."

Jeremy doesn't say anything right away. He just stands there and looks at you. You can see the gears turning in his head as he thinks it over. You wait patiently.

"The offer is this, you join me, leave all of them behind, and kill Mads for me. I will get you your dagger. You must kill him, for good. Cease his existence. You will have a place with me once I take over his estate. We will show him that I have the power to take control and lead the vampire nest unlike any other."

Both of you stand there looking at one another. You can see he is waiting for your answer.

"I will not make this offer again," he warns you. Jeremy holds a hand out to you. Shaking his hand makes the deal and there will be no turning back.

You step forward.

Deep breaths.

You stop.

Jeremy watches you with no expression on his face. His hand remains still.

You raise your hand and grasp his. His fingers curls around your hand and you give it a firm shake. He grins wickedly at you, his eyes lighting up with amusement.

"You've made the right choice."

You don't say anything. You just stare at your hand in his and feel dread take over.

You had not other choice, you tell yourself.

This is the only way.

♡♡♡

@lieutenantn @ntlmundy @ilussionary-forest @that-one-fandom-kid @mischief-siriusly-managed @madhatter2727 @gabrielapoe-16 @baronesszemo-blackwood @valquiria3000 @wannabevampire @ten-tenya-iida @crackedout @rothko-mirror @niceshadeofblue @my-fic-corner @bdffkierenwalker @nezla @bb-skyrunner @dezzylou24 @meganlpie @casi-eternal  @janine-007

[rebelwrites]

You Don’t Know Her Like I Did

Jax Teller x Reader 

Text in bold is present day and the rest is memories

Warnings Death

That day would stay with Jax until the day he died. The day his world finally crumbled, the day his life changed forever. The boisterous, loud mouth biker everyone knew had gone and had been replaced with a quiet, lost biker. He remembered the day like it was only yesterday, the one call that broke the untouchable Jackson Teller.

Leaning against his bike, he felt his phone ring for a millionth time. Pulling it out of his pocket he saw all the missed calls from his mom. Hitting call he pulled the phone to his ear whilst he lit a cigarette.

“Mom you know I’m on a run” he sighed.

“I know I’m sorry son but this is important” she sighed, by the tone in his moms voice he knew something was wrong, something had happened.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s been an accident” Gemma said shakily. “It’s Y/N”

Instantly he felt sick, panic ran through his veins at the thought of his old lady hurt.

“I’m on my way”

Shoving the phone back in his pocket and tossing the half smoked cigarette in the mud he squeezed the throttle, racing home to his baby girl. He was at least two hours away from home yet he managed to get home within the hour, not caring about breaking the speed limits.

His feet pounded the floors of the hospital as he made his way to you. His heart shattered into a million pieces when he saw you laying in the hospital bed, cuts and bruises littering your soft skin. Tubes and wires keeping you breathing.

“What happened” he breathed sitting by your side taking your hand in his.

“A lorry ran a red light” Gemma said her voice barley a whisper. “Jax the doctors are saying it’s not good. We could, she might” she was unable to say the words but he knew what she was saying.

Brushing his fingers over your cheeks, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Come on princess” he sobbed “just open then beautiful eyes for me. Please”

The only sound in the room was the steady beep of the heart rate monitor that was until the door opened, making Jax glance up to see who was entering the room.

“Sorry Jackie Boy” Chibs sighed “This one wants their daddy”

“Daddy” Harry said squirming in Chib’s arms before he place him on his feet and he ran into Jax’s arms.

Picking his son up, holding him tight in his arms he placed a long kiss on the crown of his head.

“Is mommy going to be okay” He asked as he played with the bullet hanging round Jax’s neck.

“I don’t know buddy” Jax sighed not wanting to lie to the 4 year old. “Mommy isn’t well baby, but no matter what happens I need to remember that she loves you so much”

A couple of hours had passed and nothing had changed.

“Okay Mr Teller, we are going to bring Y/N out of the coma and the rest will be up to her, unfortunately there isn’t much we can do at this stage” The doctor said softly as he did whatever he needed to do to wake you.

Jax watched intently as your eyes fluttered open, one look in them he knew things wasn’t good, the twinkle you normally had, was gone. He knew it was only a matter of time.

“My prince charming” You said, voice horse and not much more than a whisper.

“Mommy” Harry grinned trying to clamber into your arms.

“Buddy be careful with mommy okay” Jax whispered placing your son on the bed, watching as he snuggled into your side.

“Where does it hurt momma” Harry said placing his tiny hand on top of yours “You say kisses make everything better”

Jax thought he had no more tears to shed until Harry spoke.

“I don’t think kisses are going to work this time baby” You whispered using all your strength to hold your son tight, taking in his scent.

You and Jax knew this was the end, your body was shutting down and there wasn’t a thing anyone could do to stop it.

“Jax” You whispered looking at your husband who was trying to squeeze himself onto the tiny hospital bed.

“I know baby I know” He sighed kissing your lips softly, like you was made of glass.

“Look after our baby” You whispered tears streaming down your face as you felt yourself getting weaker. “Look after yourself, raise our son to be an amazing man like you”

“Baby I don’t want to let go” He sobbed into your hair.

“I know but you have to” You sobbed “Just remember I will always love you, you will always be my outlaw prince” Leaning down you placed a kiss on your sons head “my baby boy, I will always love you even when I am not here”

“Momma I love you too” Harry said looking up at your with his big blue eyes full of innocence.

“I love you” You said, your voice getting weaker.

Jax knew what was coming, he knew it was time.

“I love you to baby girl” He sobbed placing one last kiss on your lips, resting his forehead on yours, he watched your eyes close, a smile on your face as the monitor beside you stopped beating constantly and was now just one long beep.

Leaning against the bar, nursing the bottle of Jack, Jax felt a hand on his back. It had been 6 months since the worst day of his life, he had hardly been home, hardly seen his son. Just spent his days at the club.

“Maybe talking to someone will help Jax” Chibs said lowly.

“Don’t really feel like talking” Jax grunted “She’s gone and I feel it might just be too much to bear if I spoke about that day”

After a moment of silence Jax spoke again.

“You’ll never understand, no one will, you don’t know what we’ve been through. That girl’s my best friend and there’s no way you or anyone else is gonna be able to help me. She’s the only one who can and she’s gone” Jax said as hot tears rolled down his cheeks as he held onto his chain that now contained your wedding and engagement ring alongside the bullet. “Chibs, I can’t forget that day, no matter what I do and I feel like I’m drowning in all these memories. Our whole life together is replaying in my head”

The day you walked into the lot of Teller-Morrow, Jax knew his life was gonna change.

“Isn’t that Y/N Y/L/N?” Opie asked making Jax look up. “Yeah man, Jheeze not seen her since we dropped out of school” Jax said wiping his hands on the rag before sauntering over your you.

Jax had the biggest crush on you during his school years yet for some reason never had the balls to ask you out.

“Well I didn’t think I’d see you back in charming darlin’” Jax smirked.

“Fuck me, if it isn’t the famous Jax Teller” you laughed as he gave you a hug.

“But seriously what you doing in charming” Jax nodded offering a cigarette which you accepted, he noticed straight away you wore no wedding band “thought you’d be married to some pompous prick”

“I guess you are half right on that” you laughed pushing smoke out your nose “I dated a pompous prick but all the money in the world wouldn’t make me to go back to that life style. The bastard had an issue with me riding and how I dress so I left his sorry ass”

“Jheeze, guess you can take the girl out of charming but can’t take charming out the girl” Jax smirked “What can we do for ya”

“New tyres for the beast” you laughed nodding your head to the bike parked at your side.

Jax couldn’t help but smile as he watched you catch up with Opie, you had changed a lot since school, and definitely more women now, you wasn’t the skinniest person with your well defined hourglass figure, he couldn’t help himself as his eyes trailed your body, the ripped jeans hugging your curves, the vest stop revealing the perfect amount of cleavage, the battered leather bomber jacket was like a second skin, your hair pulled into a simple pony tail, cigarette hanging out your mouth. Jax was infatuated.

As he walked closer he overheard your conversation with Opie as you sat on top of the bench.

“He just couldn’t handle the fact I’m not who I was in school” you laughed.

Back in the day you were a straight A student Daddy’s little girl" Jax smirked making you roll your eyes.

“Maybe I just want a bad boy” you shrugged smirking as you saw Jax’s breathing hitch.

There was only one person that knew you had always crushed on Jax and that was Opie.

“I’m gonna sort your bike out” he nodded leaving you and Jax alone.

“If you want a bad boy then baby you got it” Jax winked “I’ll take you to the wrong side of the tracks”

After about half an hour Opie tossed your keys to you.

“So what do I owe you” you said pulling a wad of cash out your leather jacket.

“Put you cash away women” Jax laughed putting his arm around your shoulders “I think letting me take you on a date will be enough payment”

“And I can’t cope, it’s another death inside the family. It’s like she stole my way to breathe” Jax said playing with his wedding band. He could tell by the look on Tig’s face what he was going to say so Jax held his hand out stopping the words escaping his lips “Don’t try to tell me it stops hurting, don’t try to tell me she ain’t worth it”

The sound of little feet running along the hard wood floor of the club made Jax look up from the bottle. Reaching down he pulled Harry onto his knee.

“Daddy please don’t cry” Harry said standing on Jax’s knee wiping the tears from his eyes. “Momma wouldn’t want you crying”

“I know baby” Jax sighed kissing Harry’s head

“Are you coming home tonight?” Harry asked as he sat on the bar resting his feet on Jax’s stomach.

“I don’t know buddy” Jax said ruffling his sons hair.

“Pwease daddy” Harry said looking up through his eyelashes at him, tears filling his eyes “I miss momma too but you are never home anymore”

“I’m proud to be in the bad news crowd. The one my mama warned me about. The closest thing to hell she’s ever raised” you winked at Jax as you threw you leg over your bike “you coming baby”

“I’d go anywhere with you” Jax smirked placing his hand on your upper thigh, eyes full of lust.

“Come on then big boy let go bend the law and break some laws” you giggled placing a cigarette between your lips.

“Mmmm there’s other things we could do” Jax smirked running his finger across the top of your boobs.

“Maybe I’d let you do me on your bike” you whispered in his ear biting your lip causing him to growl.

“Grandma said we can order pizza tonight daddy” Harry grinned.

“That’s great” Jax nodded no emotion in his voice.

“Come on Harry” Chibs said picking him up and placing him on the floor. “Go find uncle Hap and annoy him”

As soon as Harry had ran off to find Happy, Chibs places a firm hand on Jax’s shoulder. Squeezing him tight.

“Right you listen here Jackie boy” Chibs said, his tone firm “you have a gorgeous son that’s trying so fucking hard to get his daddy’s attention and you are shutting him out, just like everyone else”

“Come back to me when you lose a wife” Jax scoffed.

“That shit don’t wash with me and you know it” Chibs snapped. Someone needed to be firm with him. “You aren’t the only one that is hurting. Everyday I find Harry just sat on the swing crying. The little lad is trying to be strong for his daddy”

“I swear you two was baptized in dirty water, by the hands of the devil himself, between the banks of a Whiskey River, beside the Highway to Hell” Opie laughed as he passed you and Jax a beer. “You are like the perfect match for each other”

Tonight was a massive celebration for your and Jax engagement, you was currently sat on Jax’s knee, his arm round your waist whilst your arms was tangled in his hair.

“Girl you got an outlaw. Ready to lay down all my guns. A dirty old hound dog. Learning new tricks like cuddlin’ up. You’ve got a hellcat purrin’ like a kitten. You’ve got a sinner down on his knees. It had to be hell on an angel. Lovin’ the devil outta me” Jax’s whispered as he kissed on along your jaw.

“Jax baby, we can’t dip out just yet” you giggled feeling full affect of the weed and whiskey.

“I will be quick” he smirked “promise”

“Fine” you giggled “show me a good time Teller”

“With pleasure princess” he said placing his hands under your ass as he carried you to his dorm room.

“I don’t have to sit here and take this shit” Jax snapped storming out of the club.

He threw his leg over his bike and sped off to the cemetery. The one place his brother wouldn’t nag him, the one place he could think.

Soon enough he was now sat in front of your grave.

“I’ve got too many I care about in this fucking place” jax sighed as he lit a smoke. “Babygirl I’m struggling, I really am. I don’t know what to do”

“It still amazes me even to this day how you got my every flaw, my rebel heart, every tattoo, every scar and still loved the outlaw in me” Jax whispered as a tear rolled down his cheek. “I know everyone is probably thinking I should be moving on with my life right now but right now I can’t, they didn’t know you like it did baby girl, they don’t really know how I’m struggling to live without you, I’ve hardly spent time with Harry and I know if you was here you be kicking my ass right now”

“Thought I’d find you here baby” Gemma said sitting on the grass next to Jax placing a soft kiss on his head.

“How did you do it Ma?” Jax asked tears clouding his vision “how did you carry on after JT died and continued to raise me?”

“I didn’t shut family out baby” she whispered taking his hand on hers “I leant on the club, I know you are hurting baby but you actions are hurting that gorgeous little boy of yours. He asked me today if you always be this sad”

“I don’t know what to do Ma” Jax sighed.

“Take some time off, let Chibs lead the club for a bit and spend some time with your son” she smiled softly “he lost his momma too and needs his daddy so much. I know things may seem dark right now and like there is no way up but the one thing that got me through my grief was you. You was the strength I needed to carry on every day”

“Daddy” a little voice shouted.

“Sorry Gem” Rat sighed panting slightly.

“It’s okay” she nodded.

Harry climbed into Jax’s lap, snuggling into his chest.

“I’m sorry son” he sighed burrying in face into his sons blonde hair “I know I’ve not been a good daddy recently, in fact I’m sorry for a lot of things”

“Daddy I don’t want you to be sad” Harry said placing his tiny hand against Jax’s cheek.

“I know buddy” Jax whispered wrapping his arms around him.

The two of them just sat there not saying anything, Gemma was right, the only way he would start to try and mean his heart was from the love from the 4 year old snuggled into his chest.

[secondhand-trash]

Party Night Fever

commissioned by @lyndoll​

A/N: I haven’t written anything for Mirio in god knows how long so I was a bit anxious about how this would turn out ahaha thank you lyn for commissioning me!^^

Pairing: frat boy!Togata Mirio x reader

Description: You got more out of a party you dreaded than you thought you would.

Warning: drunk creep side character, first time!reader, oral (receiving), fingering, protected sex, vaginal penetration

Word count: 4209

-

Flashing lights beamed through the large house and the heavy base of the blazing speakers pounded on your eardrum. Hollers of people could be heard every once in a while and the lingering smell of smoke made you scrounge your face up into a scowl at the pungent smell.

You had come at the insisting of your friends that your college experience would not be complete without partying till daybreak in a frat house at least once. You tried to argue that there was something missing in that logic but lost your footing at their promise that if you went this time and didn’t like it, they would never bring it up again. 

You stuck to the side of your more outgoing friends with all your might at first but as the night progresses, you decided that finding a quiet corner to stay in was much nicer than trying to act like you were enjoying yourself when your friends greeted each person you had no idea how they knew with a squeal and lingering hug that eventually evolved into them sliding into the crowd of people that were dancing to whatever music it was playing far too loudly for your liking.

You took in a deep breath, trying to calm down the discomfort in your stomach. The red plastic cup was nearly cramped up within your tight grip, and you lifted it to your lips before pouring all of the remaining liquid down your throat. It was water, instead of vodka like most people would have expected when they saw clear liquid pooling at the bottom of a red cup, and you knew you probably wouldn’t blend it all that well when you saw the face the self-assigned bartender made when you timidly asked for water in the pantry.

It did not take an observant person to know that you were not having the time of your life as you tried your best to hide in the corner of the living room amidst the wild party that was going on.

You felt smaller and smaller as each minute passed, the anxiety of being the odd one out as people passed by you with a glance built up in your chest and suffocating you. You searched for your friends to see if they were anywhere near to no avail and as the music faded out, you quickly made a move to creep out of the house to get some much needed space.

You let out your first sigh of relief of the day when you exited to the lawn outside the large house. The music and lights were shut within, and you finally felt at peace with yourself even though you knew this was just a temporary escape. You could not just leave your friends there, you wouldn’t feel at ease not knowing if they made it back to their dorms safely by the end of the night either.

You shivered a little under the late night breeze, hugging yourself a little as you breathed in the chilly air.

You felt a whole other type of shivers running down your spine when you heard a sickeningly sweet voice, the kind that made your throat ache and your heart weighted down just from hearing it, rang from behind of you.

“What are you doing here all alone, baby girl?”

A pulsing shock sparked through your head down to your system. Your hands felt clammy as you froze there, not able to make the reaction that you had wished you could make.

“Come on? Why the silent treatment?"

An icky feeling rose in your stomach when a lanky arm swung itself over your shoulders. You tried to pull yourself away but it was to no avail. You shifted uncomfortably at how close the strange man was pressing up against you but he seemed to see it as simply you being shy. 

“We could go somewhere private if you don’t like crowds…” You could smell the alcohol lingering in his breath as he slurred, his body slumping against yours but his grip firm on your arm.

Your own limbs felt slack on your sides even though your mind was screaming for you to do something. Scream, push him away, just do something, anything. But your body was not yours as it fell under the panic of this random drunk getting near you and the connotation of what he wanted to do.

"Leave me alone,” your voice came out much weaker than you had hoped it would, and your protest did nothing to shove the creep away.

“Aww…” he only seemed to be entertained by your struggle, his eyes curling into two thin strands as he looked you up and down, “playing hard to get, huh…?”

Your eyes skittered around you as you held your hands in front of your body in defence, hoping and praying that someone would get out and see that you were trying your hardest to squirm away. Your eyes were seeing white as the man showed no intention of backing off, the weight at the back of your throat so heavy that it hurt.

“What do you think you are doing here?”

You sucked in a deep breath when the person suddenly let go of you, trying to steady your breaths that you had been holding in. You pressed your palm to your chest, feeling how rapid the beating underneath was.

Your saviour came in the form of a tall blonde with slicked back hair, his varsity jacket tied up around his waist and hanging low on his jeans. He eyed the man who had been bothering you just seconds earlier, his hands crossing in front of his chest as he glanced at your side.

He furrowed his eyebrows, “Who let you in here?”

The drunk was physically intimidated by the much bigger man, letting out a forced chuckle as he took a step back. “Mirio-”

“You know the rules here,” Mirio said, his tone making it clear that he was nothing but serious, “we don’t let harassment slide.”

“Bro, it’s not that serious-”

“Leave,” the man’s exaggerated smile froze in place when Mirio gripped onto his arm, “now.”

He was let go with a shove at his shoulder, throwing down a few mumbled cusses before scurrying away with imbalanced steps. Mirio watched as the man left the lawn, making sure that he had left the venue before turning to your shaking form.

“Hey, hey,” his instinct was to hold onto your shaking hands but paused when he saw how scared you were, slowly retracting his hands when he realised that it was best for him to give you some space, “it’s ok now.”

“I’m sorry, I-”

“Sh…” he bent down, staring up into your eyes, “don’t apologise. You did nothing wrong.”

He gulped, thinking of what could he possibly say to calm you down.

“What should I call you?” he asked, trying to get the small talk going.

“(y/n) is fine,” you muttered, your voice getting just a little louder under his gentle gaze.

“(y/n),” your own name sounded reassuring coming out of his mouth and he looked down as if that was an important piece of information he needed to process through, “are you here with anyone? Do you want me to get them?”

“No,” you blurted out, “no, it’s alright. I just want to wait for them in somewhere quiet, if that’s alright…”

He stood back up, flashing you a soft smile and you couldn’t help but return the favour. “Of course, follow me.”

You felt your headache returning the moment he pushed the door to the large house open, the music pulsing just as loudly in your ears as before. You felt self-conscious as you walked back in, hoping that no one would notice the clear distress in your eyes or how you try to hold yourself together. Mirio walked in front of you, his arm holding out to make sure the crowd would not bump into you. His eyes glanced back to make sure you were not falling behind. No one seemed to notice you with Mirio’s frame shielding you behind him. 

“Careful,” he said as you reached the staircase that was much dimmer than where the party was going on. You quickly got up the steps, lowering your footsteps as you held tight onto the carved rail.

The corridor was long and narrow and he stopped at the very end of it. He flicked the lights open with a click before moving aside. “You can stay here as long as you want,” he said, gesturing to the room, “I’ll be outside the door if you need me.”

The door closed behind you with a click, and you slide down to the floor with a heavy sigh. You held your head in your heads, shutting your eyes as you tried to calm down the burning wires that made your head spin. You pressed your back against the wooden door, gulping down the bitterness pooling up inside your mouth as you took in your surroundings. 

It was what you would expect from a college frat boy. His bed was undone, the blanket half fell to the floor. There were movie posters stuck on the walls and jerseys hung up on the closet door. You smiled when you saw a yellow bear plushie on the wall shelf above the desk at the corner, the first genuine feeling of glee you experienced for the day.

“Winnie the pooh, huh?” you said, more to yourself than to him. Much to your surprise, a sheepish laugh passed through the door to your ears.

“I’ve had it since I was a kid and I just can’t leave it at home when I left for college,” he said, his voice muffled by the thick door, “I told people that my parents put it in my luggage when I wasn’t paying attention but that’s a lie, I take him here so I have something to hold onto when I feel homesick.”

“Aw,” you grinned at the image of this tall boy who could easily scare people away just by standing there holding onto his teddy bear. He was quite like one himself in a sense, with his bright eyes and warm smile.

“Don’t tell people about it though.”

You laughed, “Your secret is safe with me.”

The room fell into silence again, and you bite your lips as you pondered if you could trust your instincts. 

“Do you want to come in?” you stood up, your hand hovering above the doorknob.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything-”

“It’s alright,” he snapped back at the sound of the door opening, blue eyes widening just a little as he turned around to see you standing there with a smile, “I can trust someone who finds comfort in pooh bear.”

Mirio scratched the back of his neck in embarrassment, walking past you into his room mouthing a soft thank you. He went directly to pick up the blanket on the floor and pacing around checking if there was any mess he needed to clean up. “Sorry for the mess,” he said, pausing when he got to the corner of his room.

He turned around with the biggest smile on his face, hold a rectangular box in his hand. You gasped in disbelief when you saw what he was holding.

“I can understand bringing a plushie,” you said as you got closer to take a better look, “but what would have made you bring Disney DVDs with you?”

“Got a whole box of these at a garage sell for nearly no price at all,” he held his hand up to show you the titles he had in hand, “in my defence, it’s a much better investment than Disney+.”

You snorted, feeling a ping of nostalgia in your chest. “Do you have a player?”

He quirked his eyebrows up, “Are you saying you would be my disney binge partner?”

You chuckled, “Only if you let me pick what we watch first.”

He beamed and you sat down by the foot of his mattress. The mattress sunk down next to you as he sat down, his eyes glimmering like a child as the title card played. He maintained somewhat of a distance from you at first, but you found yourself gravitating towards him more and more as the movie played. How could you not when this tall boy of muscles and limbs hummed and swayed to every song? Eventually, your shoulders were rubbing against each other’s when the training montage played and your head was leaning onto his arm by middle of the movie. You pretended that you weren’t all too endeared when he held his breath in as Mulan was along with the antagonist, or that you were staring at his little smile instead of the tv screen when she made the big reveal that she was a woman like he hadn’t seen this movie an uncountable number of times before.

Should gut feelings be trusted? Because you almost felt safe when he casually draped his arms around you, pulling you close as the end credits rolled. You looked up at him, watching as he let out a satisfied sigh. His biceps flexed against your shoulder as he leaned back, making your face heat up a little.

“I can never get tired of Mulan,” he turned to look at you but paused when he realised how close you two had gotten. You were practically on his lap with your face nuzzled against his neck. He could feel you pressing against his side, the softness made his mind go to all the wrong directions. He gulped, staring into your eyes as he glanced down. Every hair at the back of your neck stood up as you felt the tension lingering in the air, both of you afraid of moving in fear of breaking whatever you had going on.

“Um,” his eyes shifted around, trying hard to look at anything but your lips that was right in front of him, “do you want to watch something else or…”

His face was dangerously closed to yours and you could feel the soft puffs of hot breath fanning against your face as he whispered. In a sudden surge of courage, you did the unthinkable and leaned up to close the gap between the two of you. You backed away immediately, leaving Mirio dumbfounded at the slightest of contact he felt on his lips. He dipped his head down, giving you a much firmer kiss on the lips as he held you close, his other hand resting on the side of your waist. 

You felt clumsy as you tasted the lingering scent of beer on his lips, your mind going hazy at the how soft he was with you. His hand trailed down from your waist to your thigh, pulling you so that you were straddling him for real. He let out a soft whimper at the feeling of your soft legs on his lap, his hand holding you by the small of your back as he never once stopped kissing you. 

He took the gentle tilt of your head as a sign that he was doing the right thing, his plush lips trailing down to your neck. Your heart stammered in your chest as he inched lowered, his thumb hooked under the collar of your shirt and leaving kitten licks on the exposed skin. He paused when his finger brushed past the hem of your shirt, looking up at you like he was waiting for permission. 

You gulped, feeling your stomach twisting into knots from your nerves to anticipation to arousal. You gave him a gentle push on the chest, pulling your shirt over your head as his burning stare grilled onto your skin. Your arms linger in front of your chest, feeling vulnerable now that you were half bare in front of someone as attractive as Mirio was. He sat up, giving you a soft peck before gently holding onto your hand. Goosebumps rose on your skin when he flipped you around so that you had your back on the mattress with him perching on top of you, his lips gracing past your exposed skin as he trailed down the valley of your breasts, pecking every inch of skin he could reach before stopping at your stomach which he nuzzled against.

“Mirio?” you squeaked.

“What is it, sunshine?” 

“I’ve never,” you gulped, feeling the weight in your chest settling in as you contemplated if you should let him know, “done anything like this. Well, not with another person…”

“Oh,” he looked down, his finger tapping a soothing rhythm against your thigh before looking back up, “but do you want to?”

You paused, your mouth feeling a bit dry as you darted your tongue out to wet your bottom lip, “Yes.”

He smiled, placing a soft kiss right above the button of your shorts, “Promise you’ll tell me if you want to stop?”

You chuckled, “Ok.”

His hands were gentle as he pushed down your shorts, guiding you to lift yourself off the mattress for utility. Your breath hitched when he parted your legs, feeling like you wanted to crawl away when he was staring right at your clothed pussy. His touch tickled your skin as he peppered feather light kisses on your inner thigh, his head kneading the doughy flesh encouragingly while inching closer and closer to where you wanted him the most. You let out a soft whine the pad of his finger brushed against the wet spot on your panties before hooking it under his knuckles and pealing it off. He licked his lips when he saw the clear essence that was starting to gather.

Shivers shot down your spine at the first experimental swipe of his tongue against your folds. The feeling was unlike anything you had felt when you were touching yourself, the thought of someone else taking control over your body had your eyes closing in anticipation. He drank in your reaction, getting a little bolder and bolder the more you seemed to enjoy it. His thumb pulled back the hood of your clit, the tip of his tongue tracing the sensitive bud before latching onto it in gentle sucks. Your skin was set ablaze by his miniatures, tickling your senses when he released it with a lewd pop before darting his tongue out to flick against your clit. You moaned under the sudden jolt of pleasure, and you could feel him grinning like he just hit jackpot. He repeated the action again and again, until he trailed his tongue down to part your soppy folds. 

Your mind melted at his kitten licks and your knees went weak when you felt the warm muscle slowly pushing into your cunt. Your hands fisted the sheets underneath you as he slowly pumped his tongue in and out of your tight walls, stretching you out as his thumb rubbed against your engorged clit. His tongue pushed past your insides, reaching as far as he could get before pulling back and repeat. You threw your head back at the new found pleasure, unable to focus on anything but the loud slurping that filled your ears. 

You slammed your head back when he pulled away, replacing it with his ring finger as his lips latched onto your clit again. You felt your muscles spasming as it accommodated the new object, more of your juices gushing out on top of the lubrication from him going down on your earlier making it less difficult for him to push in. He started slow, his eyes never once peeling away from you as he experimented with the pace to see what you like before slowly adding another one of his digits, pausing whenever he saw even a hint of discomfort in your eyes. Your toes curled and uncurled as he slowly scissored his fingers inside of you, prepping you so that you would be ready for what’s to come.

“Mirio,” you panted, “I want you…”

He groaned at your soft pleas, feeling his patience reaching his limits as the dullness in his pants got worse. His fingers were still inside of you as he leaned up and you could taste yourself on his lips. You whined at the emptiness when he pulled out, reaching to the side to fumble through his drawer before pulling out a silver packet. Your hands felt like they weren’t yours when he gently guided them to his belt buckle, your fingers all tangled together as you undid his belt. He pulled his shirt over his head, his toned stomach flexing as be breathed. 

You gulped when he pulled down his pants to free his half hard cock from its restraints. It wasn’t… exactly something you would describe as a work of art but you still felt the slightest bit intimidated by his size. He brought your hand up to his abdomen, giving you an encouraging nod as your hand wandered down. His length was hot when you wrapped your hand around its crown, and you could hear the pounding in your chest as it filled. 

“Just relax,” he whispered as he slowly laid you back down, ripping the aluminium before rolling the rubber onto his length, “I’ll take care of you.”

You held onto his shoulders as he rubbed his tip against your folds, gathering the wetness on his length. A pang of discomfort pulsed through your spine when he started to push in and you feel the stretch tearing into you from his thickness. You held him there when panic shot through his eyes and he was about to pull out, looking at him through glassy eyes as you slowly get used to the girth. His chest rose and fall steadily as he watched you with intent, letting out a relieved sigh when your arms relaxed around him. He took his time, pushing in little by little until he finally hilted inside of you, your lips parting with nothing but soft pants coming out as your walls stretched around him.

You let out a soft laugh, feeling the discomfort slowly going away as the knot at the pitch of your stomach filled in. “You can move, Mirio.”

A mewl was ripped from your throat as his tip dragged along your insides and he moaned at the feeling of you sucking him in. You were so warm and all wrapped up around him and he had to pull himself back from completely wrecking you with all the might he could muster.

“Fuck- baby you’re so tight,” he gritted, holding your leg so that you could wrap them loosely around his waist, “is this good? Tell me if it feels good?”

You could do nothing but nod from the overwhelming sensation of being filled up and his chuckles hit you in full force as each thrust brought his chest against yours. 

“That’s good, that’s-” he hissed when you clamped down on him, his pace slowly picking up as your body relaxed, “good…”

Each surge of his pelvis had his hips smacking against your thighs and the sound of skin slapping filled the room. You weakly threw your arms around his neck, pulling him close to latch your lips on him sloppily. You could barely keep your eyes open, moaning into his mouth as you felt the heat spreading all over your body. You saw white at the corner of your eys as the first wave of orgasmic bliss washed over you, his name rolling off your tongue like a mantra as you held onto him.

“You’re so pretty when you cum on my cock,” he whimpered, his eyes rolling back as your cunt fluttered around him.

He pushed your legs back and the new angle had tears forming in your eyes as he fucked you deep in your sensitive state. His hand dug into the side of your hips, his thrusts getting sloppier and sloppier. 

He throbbed inside of you as he threw his head back, his lips trembling with his brows locked together as you felt the warmth of his release inside of you. He dredged his cock inside of you, weakly riding out his high before pulling out and collapsing next to you. His chest was still heaving when he turned to you, pulling you close to him as he let out a breathy chuckle.

“I’ll clean you up later…” he was panting through his words and you laid your head on his side with a small grin, “but right now let’s just- let’s just stay like this…”

His pants were all you could hear until he collected his breath. Your skin felt sticky but your head was too filled with endorphins for you to care about it at all.

“You know,” he said, his palm rubbing against your back, “we should really go out sometime. I know that we messed up the order of things already but-”

“I don’t know,” you mused, “watching disney movies on dvd together sounds like a valid first step to me.”

He laughed, and pulled you close to plant a kiss on your forehead.

“We still have a lot more to binge through so you better be ready.”

[seancekitsch]

Powerplay: a Marko x Reader fic

part 3 of 3, previous part here

Warnings: harassment, vamp typical shit, cursing, death/killing, smut mentions, reference to the book

Marko was a good boyfriend, it turned out, except for when he wasn’t. You liked the sweet little kisses, the teasing way he snaps his jaw at you when you catch him staring, the way he holds you while you’re falling asleep even though he doesn’t have to.You like that he listens, more than your friends do. You rang another friend the other day, and were left waiting with the endless ringing again. You want to be upset, but they weren't as close as you were hoping they’d be. Your close friends were back in New York, three thousand miles and a year of working behind you. And they were Marko and his brothers now.

You love the way he keeps you safe, your protector being probably the deadliest thing you could encounter. You love the way he laughs, always joking and jovial. You always thought his smile hid a joke like some mystery, but now you're in on it too, and it's the funniest thing. There is no secret  joke, just Marko seeing the world with eyes full of humor. He sees the little things, and now he shows them to you. You love the way you can speak without speaking. Silence followed by heavy laughter, kisses, and understanding.

You even love that week you were on your period and every night he ate you out until you screamed yourself hoarse.

“Marko,” you’d say, “lets ride.”

And he would obey, letting you hop on the back of his bike, always after work, always too fast. You'd like to imagine him crashing as the wind whips your hair, stings your face. What that would be like, huh. It's what you assume he feels like when he flies, free and wild in the night. He caters to your every whim, makes you feel the happiest,  as long as the sun has set.

He was less a good boyfriend when he was hungry, brooding and refusing to get close to you. He would be irritable, pick fights, silent treatment. He would purposely leave you in silence, but he wouldn't ask for a taste, despite your offering. He respected you enough not to try that. Other times, he would make sure that you could hear every thought in his head. His thoughts sounded like shouts, always telling you to get the fuck away, always reminding you how vulnerable you were, how easy to kill you’d be. It's almost maddening. You never knew which nights he would be the silent ones, or which ones would be the loud ones.  

“Marko,” you’d say, “This is just temporary.”

You don't even have to think the words for him to know what you mean. Or those moments during the day when it's highlighted just how different he was, would always be. He would always be twenty and handsome and having fun, with a guaranteed group of friends. With a family he belonged with. You would always age, you would have to find something else to do eventually, and you would probably have to leave Santa Carla, because he wouldn't. You could always bore him, with Marko one day realizing you can't keep up anymore. You would always be weaker, and no matter how often Marko puts you first, he always holds the power. You’re only the decision maker because he lets you be. He could always take that power back. Find someone new when you get old and he stays the same age. He will always be this way, and you will always change.

It's those nights you think of pulling away from him, and you hope he never hears those thoughts. You love him, but he’ll always say it's not temporary. It's not true.

You love Marko today.

The jingling of the bell snaps you from your thoughts, head rising only to be face to face with one of the surf nazis. Huh, guess the boys didn’t clear all of them out. This one was tall, a skinhead with an upturned pug-like nose, wearing a lot of denim with eyes alight with mayhem in his agenda. Oh, please don’t fucking break anything.

“Hey Baby,” he sneers. God, his voice was even worse than his looks and his smell.

“Not your baby,” you deadpan, wishing desperately for him and his friends to leave without stealing or breaking anything forcing a sickeningly sweet customer service tone, “But what can I help with?”

Maybe good customer service will get them in-and-out quicker.

“That hot little body of yours could help me out,” his tone is outright mocking. God, is this how dudes like these think they can pull? You can’t even hide your grimace as you flinch at the words. If there was anyone else, just one other person working tonight, this wouldn’t be happening. You know this. Working nights alone practically invited this brand of harassment.

fuckfuckfuck. It’s way too early for Marko to be sniffing around, and if you can get them to leave the next four hours of your shift will be miserable. The man laughs, and it makes your blood run cold. He leans over the counter, past the little curtain of incense haze; breaching your only barrier of safety.

“I bet it could. Couldn’t it, baby?”

His large arms press against the glass of the counter and your eyes immediately flicker from them to the back room, where your knife is. He straightens up.

“Cat got your tongue?”

You frown, meeting his eyes now.

“Do you plan on buying anything we sell?” The Bauhaus record you have playing over the speaker skips, and you almost jump. It's just enough to break the tension, the rising bile in your throat clearing.

“I come in here for you, girlie,” and he affirms what you already know. Now that half of the surf nazis were gone, they were struggling to maintain their turf on the boardwalk. So harassment and torture at their hands were on the rise. Many people over the past few weeks had been dodging them in the stores around here, and now apparently they had caught wise to that. Done with it, you take a step back, leaning yourself against the back shelf to retreat further into the curtain of nag champa.

“You can fuck off,” you offer, gaining confidence as you realize the bong behind your head was more than affordable, and if you broke it over his head, you could cover it.

He opens his mouth to respond, but-

The bell on the door jingles again. A familiar smile fades into a scowl. Marko looks like one of those greek heroes tonight, maybe if only because his presence saves you from the gross comments (or anything worse) of the shaved head across the counter. He immediately distracts the surfer from you.

“Why don’t you get outta here, buddy? Me and the lady were just discussing me trying her out later,” the man spits, and you almost gag at the mental image of that.

Marko laughs, that high pitched full body laugh you love so much.

“That’s funny, buddy,” He throws the man’s nickname back at him, “Cause that’s my old lady right there.”

You loved and hated when he called you that. Technically, you are a year older than the year he turned. The first time you all realized that, Paul gave himself a stomach ache laughing over the ‘older woman’ Marko brought home. Tonight though, the nickname brings the biggest smile to your lips.

“Damn right I am,” you chime in, “and you couldn’t take the hint.”

Marko seals the deal by striding over to where you are and pulling you into a kiss over the counter. It doesn't take much more for the surf nazi to leave, the jingling of the door opening announcing his departure.

“I’m gonna make sure we kill the rest of them before the week is out.”

He waits the three hours it takes for you to be able to lock up behind the counter with you, loosely holding your hips and following you around, only moving away from you to pick out new records when one ends. 

Come over tonight, Marko thinks, and you know it isn't a suggestion. You kiss him hard on the mouth, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him to press against you. His arms automatically find themselves around your waist, squeezing you as he eagerly returns the kiss. This wouldn’t be your first time at their dilapidated hotel, with sprawling caves and chandeliers and beautiful spray painted murals on the walls. The first time you were there, he brought you there while the others were hunting. He fucked you on any surface not covered with knick knacks they'd collected or takeout containers, leaving you to sheepishly blush while he proudly talked to the others when they returned, deep red hickies and a bite mark on your collarbone you couldn't hide. The next time, the boys and Star and Laddie welcomed you in with booze and a feast and a fun night where you had to crawl out of the cave at dawn looking like a mess. Either way, he waits for you to agree before he leads you to his motorcycle.

“Star, Why don't you just become one of us already?” Paul whined, holding his half eaten eggroll like a cigar, “You're already living with us, Mama. We just want to be friends forever.”

She scrunches her nose, smoothing the long hair of Laddie’s head in her lap. The boy was tired, their unofficial little brother or not, he was still an eight year old.

“Or maybe,” David starts, dropping down from the rim of the check in counter of the hotel, “Star can just have some fun with them and we don’t even have to do what Max wants.”

The boys all laugh, Dwayne’s shoulders turning inward, while Paul smacks Marko in the chest behind you. Whoever Max was, he was someone that could give the boys orders; something you didnt think possible besides their own little group hierarchy. You'd figured out pretty quickly that David was the leader, Marko was his right hand, Dwayne was the left hand; with Marko enforcing, playful and impulsive, and Dwayne being the level head, logical and the one who often kept the boys from fighting and made them all remember why they loved each other so much. Paul was the baby. Both literally and figuratively. He was the messiest, the most likely to slip up;. He was also the one turned last. So when Star decides to be one of them, she’ll be the new baby. Then Laddie.

“No,” Star affirms, “No, I can’t do that to Michael.”

“Michael,” David tests the name on his lips, tongue darting out to lick them after he says it. The curly haired brunette on the boardwalk had a name. Then his eyes flick to you. There's a sharpness to them that feels so different from Marko’s. David is trying to stare through you, not to look inside of your head, to look past it, to see any weakness. A challenge.

“Who’s Max?” you speak up from your spot on Marko’s lap. You can feel him tense under you, but David smiles.

“You don't know about Max? Marko, you didn’t tell her about Max?”

Marko’s hand wraps around your wrist as David continues.

“Max knows all about you, y/n. There’s a reason you're here.”

Here as in, still alive in a vampire den, or here tonight specifically?

Mind thing? You think, and Marko leans his head down against your shoulder as he nods.

“So he knows Marko and I are X-men? Is he Professor X?”

You hear Dwayne and Paul chuckle from the other side of the circle, and Dwayne mutters, “Yeah something like that,” as he swats his hand at Paul’s mesh-covered chest.

“He sired us,” David clarifies.

“You feel it right?” changing the subject, “You feel like you need to be near Marko?”

Marko squeezes your wrist in encouragement, and you nod.

“He’s my boyfriend.”

“That's not what I mean.”

You know what he means. It's the way you feel Marko before you see him, the way you can never sneak up on him.

You nod again.

“That’s what Max wanted to know. Marko, do you wanna tell her, or should I?”

What does he mean? You think and the man below you perks up.

Come with me. His palms grip your hips and gently push you to stand, and he follows suit before taking the lead.

He leads you towards the mouth of the cave, where you enter and away from any listening ears.

“So you know how David is dating Star?” he asks, voice low and close to you in the shadows.

“If that’s what they’re doing,” you joke, and he laughs along with you.

“Well, he thought they had what we have, and that's why she’s with us.” He reaches for your hands to hold them, dropping any playfulness from before.

“I’m supposed to turn you, Max thinks. He’s a lot older than us, and he says some vampires have mates or something similar to that. Others they have some deep mental connection with. The guys… we can hear each other sometimes if we try hard, because we’re a pack. I don't have to try with you and that's why Max thinks it's different.”

Turn you? Like, capital T- Turn you? Into one of them? If he turned you, you’d never see the sun again; never feel its warmth. You’d have to drink blood, and human blood at that. You’d become a killer, and you’d have to keep killing. While you aren’t innocent, killing kind of seems like it would be a stretch for you. Some of their victims had to be innocent, but would your hunger corrupt your morals one day?

It's like he can see the wheels turning in your head, ability to hear your thoughts or not.

“Y/n, you don't have to. Fuck, this was dumb to bring up. David thought you were ready, but if you don't want to I won't make you…” He trails off, visibly a little more deflated.

But if you did, you would be on the same level as Marko. All of the insecurities you have about your relationship would just… stop existing. Your relationship’s expiration date would disappear, your fears about having to leave him or him leaving you would disappear. You'd have people and a place to belong and lover and guaranteed group of friends to be a new family.

“How does it work, Marko?” your voice surprises him, and in honesty, he brought you to the mouth of the cave to give you an out. If you wanted to leave here, leave him specifically, he was going to let you.

“You gotta drink, uh, vampire blood.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

You shrug.

“Are you sure? There's no take backs for this,” Marko’s voice is stern, unlike you ever heard it before.

Deadly sure, Marko.

He smiles, slowly like the moon rising in the night before it crescendos into the wide toothy grin you're so used to seeing.

Marko leads you back into the den of the cave where the others are hanging out.

Dwayne is the first to approach the two of you.

“Everything okay?”

You nod thankfully, offering him a smile.

Paul swoops in next.

“You better be tellin’ me you're joining the fam, chica!”

He tries to drape his arm around your shoulder, but Marko pushes him away playfully, both of the boys smiling.

“Let’s get this girl a drink!” Marko shouts, and the guys start up hollering and laughing.

Marko leads you back to where you had originally been sitting, his designated folding chair. He gestures to you to sit down, while he looks to David for something. Over his shoulder, you can see Star frowning as she watches on.

“Glad you got to talk it out,” David remarks as he hands a bottle of wine to Marko. Maybe you’ll be able to get used to his mannerisms in half a century. Marko hands off the bottle of wine to you, and your hands dip with the weight of it.

The wine bottle is bejeweled, another do it yourself project that the guys seem to love so much. It's heavy in your hands, dark and unseeing down the neck of it, but full. Marko crouches down between your legs, palms flat against your thighs as everyone waits with bated breath. You uncork the bottle, noticing the dark red staining on the cork, and knowing exactly what’s in it now. Two shaky hands bring the bottle to your lips, tilting your head back as you let the contents flow into your mouth, filling it. The ‘wine’ is thick, warm and salty but feels like it's already intoxicating you from just being in your mouth.

“That’s all Marko’s blood, you know,” David remarks, and you swallow deeply. All Marko. He drained his blood for you, weakened himself for you. Your eyes flicker to him, and he smiles up at you from his spot between your legs.

You smile back at him, widely, teeth stained with blood.

[ibijau]

*chanting* sangxuan, sangxuan! because I’ve been reminded that I love that ship, have a continuation of that fic where jzx is a very repressed bi with a huge ass crush on nhs

It takes Nie Mingjue about a week to realise that there's something wrong with Nie Huaisang. The first day or two, he blames it on the shock it must be for his brother to have finally graduated from Lan Qiren's classes, and with unexpectedly high grades at that. That success must have given Nie Huaisang one of his sudden short bursts of motivation, and that's why he's suddenly attending sabre practice with the other disciple, and showing up on time for lessons. Those bursts are usually short lived, in Nie Mingjue's experience. Where the sabre is concerned, five consecutive days of hard work is his brother's record.

So on day eight, when Nie Huaisang is still showing up dutifully, still trying his best to get the movements right, Nie Mingjue becomes concerned. When the lesson is over, he asks his brother to follow him to his office so Nie Huaisang can learn how to help with something, as befits a young master of a prominent sect. Normally, this is the time of the day where Nie Huaisang likes to take time to play with his birds, something he's always particularly enthusiastic about right after returning from Gusu. But this time he follows Nie Mingjue with only the briefest of hesitations.

Slowly going from merely concerned to actively worried, Nie Mingjue decides to see how far he can push this before his brother starts acting like himself again. He gives Nie Huaisang a pile of letters to be sorted through by order of importance according to a number of criteria such as the nature of the problem, the rank of the writer, and their physical location. Night Hunting doesn't interest Nie Huaisang, so it is always a bother for him to think about creatures and remember how dangerous any of them might be. He also can't see the point of keeping track of whether a duke or a magistrate is supposed to be given more consideration. As for geography, Nie Huaisang could get lost inside his own bedroom.

And yet aside from a deep, heartfelt sigh upon being given that task, Nie Huaisang doesn't show any reaction. He just picks a chair, makes some space for himself on the side of his brother's desk, and gets to work. Nie Mingjue sits down as well, ostensibly to check some bills, but most of his attention is on his brother who is never this obedient and helpful.

“Alright, what have you done this time?” Nie Mingjue asks after a while.

Looking up from the letter he's studying, Nie Huaisang stares at him with confusion written all over his face. He could pass as perfectly innocent if Nie Mingjue didn't know him better than that.

“Did you get in trouble in Gusu before leaving?” he insists. “Or on the way home?”

“Why would you think I got in trouble?” Nie Huaisang gasps, the very picture of wounded virtue. Nie Mingjue only has to gesture at the pile of letters for his brother to drop the act. “Oh, that. Well. I've decided that I need to become a better person. I can't keep wasting my youth in frivolous pursuits. The young master of a sect must be proficient in martial arts, in cultivation, and know about running an estate. Isn't that what you're always telling me?”

“And you're never listening.”

Nie Huaisang grimaces slightly at the accusation, but nods.

“I have not always been all that I ought to be,” he sighs, rather dramatically. “But I am a changed man.”

“I'm not sure that you can call yourself a man when you're not even eighteen,”

“A changed person,” Nie Huaisang corrects without missing a beat, glaring at his brother. “I need to improve my public image, or else I'll never get to marry.”

Just like that, Nie Mingjue relaxes. Out of every reasons Nie Huaisang might have had to straighten his act, this is the least worrying one. He's the right age to start thinking about that sort of things after all, and he's apparently made a lot of friends this past year in Gusu.

“Do you have someone specific in mind?” Nie Mingjue asks, trying his best to hide his amusement.

“Maybe I do,” Nie Huaisang grumbles after just a moment of hesitation.

“Boy, girl?”

“Does it really matter? You'll let me have however I want, right?”

There's a surprising note of worry to Nie Huaisang's voice, which Nie Mingjue doesn't like in the least.

“I just ask because it'll take more work to convince the parents of your beloved if it's a boy,” he clarifies, and yet his brother doesn't relax at all. If anything, Nie Huaisang starts frowning and bites his lip. “So it's a boy, and the family is stupid about these things,” Nie Mingjue guesses.

Nie Huaisang sighs and flops over the desk, ruining his careful work with the letters.

“It's hopeless, his parents are stupid!”

“Don't badmouth your future in-laws, Huaisang.”

“It's fine, you'll agree with me when you know who it is, and how much they've messed him up.”

That's a worrying statement, but for now Nie Mingjue decides to treat it as a secondary problem. It's hardly the first time Huaisang develops a crush on someone. When he was eight, he wanted to marry Lan Xichen for a few weeks. At thirteen, he threatened to court Wen Qing who he'd seen once at a conference and to run off with her. Nie Huaisang is older and (allegedly) more mature now, but Nie Mingjue prefers to check how serious this is before calculating an auspicious date.

“Well, tell me about him then,” Nie Mingjue demands. “What unlucky bastard caught your eye this time?”

“Bastard no, definitely not,” Nie Huaisang snorts. “Unlucky... yeah. He's... well, first of all, he's handsome.”

“Goes without saying. You're too vain to settle for someone less than stunning.”

Nie Huaisang sticks out his tongue and sits back up so he can slap his brother's arm.

“Rude, very rude. Anyway, he's the most gorgeous person in the world, especially when he laughs. But he sadly doesn't laugh a lot. He's been trained out of it, I think.”

For a brief moment, Nie Mingjue wonders if his brother is in love with Lan Wangji... but no, Nie Huaisang wouldn't dare to call Lan Qiren stupid.

“He's also pretty nice, when you know him,” Nie Huaisang continues, smiling to himself. “He complains a lot, but he'd offer to study with me and he'd really try to help me. And he's serious and righteous. No matter how many times I offered to let him cheat on tests, he'd always refuse because he wanted to succeed through his own work.”

“You set the bar so low,” Nie Mingjue comments, though at least now he knows how his brother got such good grades. It's almost reassuring, in a twisted way. “Doesn't cheat on tests, somewhat nice to you... I'm not really sold on this.”

“I am,” Nie Huaisang retorts, his smile growing a little warmer. “When he looks at me, it's like he's looking at the moon and wondering how he could ever reach it. Like I'm the most incredible person in his life.”

That does sound like something that would appeal to Nie Huaisang's vanity, though Nie Mingjue wouldn't quite call it enough to get married.

“And what do you see when you look at him?”

For a moment, Nie Huaisang falls silent, his expression turning serious. Nie Mingjue is half getting scared that he's made his brother realise how shallow his feelings are, when Nie Huaisang speaks again.

“I see someone I want to make happy and to protect from everything bad,” he announces, a deep frown on his brow. “I see someone who has been hurt, and it makes me hurt as well, because he's so wonderful, and the people who hurt him are the ones who should have protected him, and it makes me so angry that something like that happened to him. I just... I just want to take him away from everyone who's ever made him feel bad about himself, and bring him somewhere safe, and hold him in my arms until he's never afraid again of what others will say about him. Is that... Is that weird?”

Coming from any other Nie, it would be normal, Nie Mingjue thinks. Their family tends to have a protective streak, even toward people who don't quite need it. It's a little odd to hear this coming from Nie Huaisang, but he is a Nie too, so it shouldn't be a surprise that he loves like one.

“So I'm guessing you want for him to marry into the family, rather than you joining theirs?” Nie Mingjue asks.

To his surprise, Nie Huaisang shakes his head.

“Won't work, his parents won't allow it. Damn, they won't be happy with it even like this. But it's... da-ge, I think I'm really in love with him,” Nie Huaisang sighs, blushing at his own confession. “I didn't mean too, it was supposed to just be a game, but I really love him. If there's got to be someone, I want it to be him.”

“Then you'll have him,” Nie Mingjue promises, like it's an evidence.

To him, it is. Their sect doesn't bother playing the game of alliances through marriages that others do. They're a little more like the Lan in that respect, even if they're not quite as ostentatious about it, and they don't bat an eye at second or even third marriages. So if Nie Huaisang has decided he wants this person, enough so that he's willing to put in effort to improve himself for over an entire week, Nie Mingjue will help him. He is weak to his brother's whims, and even weaker to his rare moments of determination.

“You don't even know who it is,” Nie Huaisang protests. “You have no idea how difficult it'll be... I really might have to run away with him and become a rogue cultivator with him, because his parents are so damn stupid! And also, I'm not sure you'd actually approve if you knew...”

“Is it one of Wen Ruohan's sons?”

The immediate grimace of disgust and betrayal on Nie Huaisang's face make it hard not to laugh.

“I told you he's handsome!” Nie Huaisang gasps. “I have taste, da-ge!”

“Aside from these two, you can marry whoever you like,” Nie Mingjue retorts. “Even other Wens if that's what you want,” he generously adds, knowing full well that there were none in Gusu, and so it's unlikely that his brother's beloved is from the sect that killed their father. Even if he were though, Nie Mingjue would do what's needed to make his brother happy, trusting him to find the one person from that sect who would have any value as a person.

Nie Huaisang is less than impressed by that statement.

“You promise?”

Maybe it really is a Wen, Nie Mingjue wonders. If so, it's too late to back off.

“I promise. Any person you want, any sect, if you say it's a decent person, if that's who you want to spend your life with, I'll do what it takes.”

“I'll hold you to that,” Nie Huaisang threatens with a cheerful smile. “I want to marry Jin Zixuan.”

Nie Mingjue stares at his brother, refusing to believe he's heard that correctly... but no, Nie Huaisang is grinning like he pulled the con of the century, that manipulative little shit. He did, in a way. However much Nie Mingjue hates Wen Ruohan and dreams of slaughtering him, at least that's someone he can somewhat respect. Jin Guangshan, on the other hand...

Nie Mingjue shivers in disgust.

Maybe a Wen would have been better after all.

[greensword101]

This is for @barely-nok. I’m sorry it took so long to get some Obake content out for you to consume. I hope you find it tasty lol.

Obake never drank on principle. He needed to keep a clear head and heads were meant for thinking. And thinking meant he could create what he wanted to the limit or even beyond that.

But even sober, his brain would...fizzle if Kei ever so much as blinked at him prettily. Or pouted. Or cheerily threatened to sing “I’m Henry the Eighth , I Am” if he didn’t agree to take a break and - urgh! Just acknowledging the phrase made him feel filthy - spend some “quality time” with a coworker.

Personally speaking, Obake would have preferred the term “expendable” or “replaceable” or “unpaid intern that wasn’t getting extra credit or the merits of knowledge.” Oh, but he would pay anything to get DeciBull out of his sight! And hearing range.

Then again, hearing range would be preferable. Wild cards like Kei were acceptable. DeciBull - or Wil as Kei had casually greeted him by to the former’s chargain -  was more of a Jack; weaker than Obake, but still a threat nonetheless.

If Kei hadn’t taken the car and driven off to God knew where, he would have stormed out of the bar and left that arsehole behind. Maybe steal his glasses and see if the chubby man with a guitar gimmack could find his way back home without falling off the pier.

Wil had barely touched his first bottle and was glowering at his phone for the past half hour. This suited Obake swimmingly, if not for the fact that Kei would know that they hadn’t made any attempt at all and would be tormenting him with that song again! And she would enlist Noodle Burger Boy this time, he was certain. And possibly Trina, though he was certain she would be directed towards Wil instead.

Obake collected himself and recited the longest formulas in the Periodic Table before he rigidly glanced over to Wil.

“I’m surprised you aren’t taking advantage of the karaoke here.”

Wil yelped and fumbled with his phone - mumbling apologies to the bartender as he passed - before gaping at Obake.

“Interesting...” Obake murmured.

“What?” Wil asked bemused.

“You almost looked like an intelligent being for a moment.”

Wil scowled, “Funny.” 

Then a smile crept onto his face. Obake stiffened. He knew he could take the man, he was slimmer and certainly wasn’t sluggish, but bars were always tricky to maneuver around in. Inebriation, sympathizers, or anyone looking for an excuse to be aggressive would make Obake beating Wil up...troublesome.

“Something amusing to you?” Obake took a sip from his own glass to appear ignorant and casual.

“Just thinking how whipped you must be if Kei could make you spend time with me,” Wil leaned in conspiratorially, “Tell me, does she make you sleep on the couch when you misbehave?”

Obake sputtered and and gave Wil a hard stare. Wil stared back undaunted.

“Shut your mouth and have your bloody drink, why don’t you?” Obake snarled and took another, deeper sip from his glass. He was used to dealing with the aggressive and almost territorial behavior Wil demonstrated back at the base. He did not want to be sober to process that Wil was capable of having bloody cheek.

“How can I have my ‘bloody drink’ if my mouth’s shut?” Wil asked innocently.

“Test my patience and we’ll find out soon enough,” Obake growled under his breath. He could do it.  One stab between the ribs and he could slip out in the noise and confusion. He just didn’t want to put up with Kei pestering him when he got back and possibly annoying her with a potential murder.

Wil sniggered and had another swig of his beer. He went back to his phone, but he barely seemed to be reading what was on the screen.

That was...unexpected. But it was a better alternative to dealing with a feral monkey by himself. Obake found himself enjoying the Manhattan more than he expected and finished it off. He was beginning to fish the cherry out when Wil spoke up again.

“Was it good?”

Obake groaned and glowered at Wil, who was starting at his empty glass curiously. What didn’t that fool understand about having a little peace and quiet?

“I don’t typically drink myself,” Wil mumbled into his bottle and drank. He sputtered for a few moments and continued, “I just stick to a beer once in a while.”

“Thank Heaven for small miracles, then,” Obake narrowed his eyes and waved the bartender over, “Another one, if you would be so kind.”

“Me too,” Wil smiled at the bartender and held up his empty bottle. Amazingly, the bartender smiled back and came back moments later with their second drinks. Wil called after him as he walked off, “Thanks, Jim!”

“You frequent this place often?” Obake ventured and helped himself to his second Manhattan. Screw sobriety, it had been so long since he had anything that tasted so good touch his lips.

“I used to,” Wil admitted, “Just for a bite and maybe a bottle. That’s kind of how me and Kei met, actually.”

“A little nip before beddybye?” Obake cooed mockingly at him.

“Crime and I have something in common,” Wil smirked, “We rarely sleep.”

“Tragic,” Obake chuckled and raised his glass in mock salute, “To your insomnia, I suppose.”

Wil raised his beer in kind, “And to good company if I ever get any.”

Now, they both laughed for real. Obake noticed for the first time how pleasantly red Wil’s face had become. Was it the alcohol or the first genuine spark of life he was expressing? If it was the latter, that would mean Kei was behind it somehow.

Suddenly, the good feeling popped like a soap bubble and Obake hid his displeasure by finishing off his second Manhattan. Wil gawked at him.

“You should slow down, Kei is gonna freak if she has to pick us up from the ER because you got alcohol poisoning or something.”

“Kei this, Kei that, you haunt her like a lapdog!” Obake spat out. Damn that woman and her silly, childish notions of fun and damn that boulder she decided would make good company!

Wil blinked and leaned back a little. A moment later, he was glowering back with that familiar hostility, “At least I don’t treat her like a nuisance like you do! Do you have any idea how much she cares about you?!”

“Cares?” Obake snapped his fingers at Jim for another glass and leaned closer to Wil’s face. His nostrils flared and he could feel Wil tense inches away from him. “Why would she have to care about me? If that’s what you call pity, then I’ve no need for it! She can pretend all she wants that we’re all supposed to be some family, but in the end, that’s all it’s going to be. A stupid dream! Why would she care about making me ‘socialize’ with the others or spending ‘quality time’ with her silly boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend?!”

Obake jabbed a finger into Wil’s chest, “Don’t play coy! I know you think I’m a prat to her! And I know you won’t believe that she can almost make me feel human! But you don’t have to worry about me getting in the way, Prince Charming! She’s all yours, so you don’t have to worry about me -”

“I’m gay.”

“And I’m Bob, the pleasure’s all...what.” Obake had to take a moment to process Wil’s flat retort.

“Gay. I like guys. I love them. I love kissing them. And I’m already taken.”

Obake opened his mouth and closed it again. He noticed that his third Manhattan had arrived and wasted no time downing it. Wil didn’t repeat how it wasn’t safe to do this time, and he was thankful for that. 

Suddenly, he felt someone standing right behind him and stilled.

“Is he giving you problems, Wil?”

“No worries, Eugene,” Wil smiled at the person behind him, “Just clearing up a misunderstanding over here.”

Obake felt a little dizzy and pinched his nose, “Let me understand this correctly. You have never had feelings for Kei?”

“Platonically, yes. Romantically or otherwise? No.”

“And this whole time, yo - you’ve...” Why couldn’t he find the right words? “You’ve...acted harshly because...?”

“Because she’s one of my best friends and I don’t want her to get hurt,” Wil said firmly. He pointed at Obake with a fiercely protective look, “I can’t help who she wants to connect with, but I won’t stand by and let her get hurt. She’s gone through too much to deserve that.”

“Alright, I’m just going to butt in for a moment here,” Eugene moved from behind Obake and stood to Wil’s left, wrapping an arm across him protectively. He was pleasant to the eyes; tall, broad, dark brown hair and a scruffy goatee. He looked at Wil, bemused, “You weren’t here scooping for another cutie, babe?”

“Wh...why...why would he...?” Obake’s tongue felt like lead. Dear Lord, he could barely speak, he was so embarrassed.

“Because this is a gay bar?” Eugene supplemented as if it weren’t obvious. Obake blinked. Come to think of it, it was rather odd no one had come to bother them when they came in. Did...did that mean...?

Somewhere in San Fransokyo, Kei was laughing herself silly. Obake was certain of it. 

“Everything alright over here?” Another voice, deeper than Eugene’s mischievous and light tone asked.

“Hey ‘Nan! This is an acquaintance of mine,” Wil helped himself to his beer, “and apparently he thought I was stealing his girlfriend until a few moments ago. Bob, this is Kanan. My other boyfriend.”

“Other...” Obake’s head was swimming. This was too much to process...

“Yeah,” Wil said shyly, “We’re...we’re kind of a poly sort of thing.”

As if to prove his point, Eugene promptly gave Wil a deep kiss on the lips that was eagerly returned. Kanan came into view and Obake noticed how dark skinned he was and the ponytail before he decided he was too sober to handle this all right now.

He made to stand and tripped over his stool. And a moment later, his Manhattans returned and splashed all over the floor.

In hindsight, he should have checked how much alcohol was in each glass...

It was about a half hour later when Kei found all four of them outside the bar with Obake being supported by an irksome Wil and amused Eugene. Kanan looked torn between disapproval and laughter.

“Was it fun?” Kei asked hesitantly. Obake took one look at her and sighed. It was his own fault for drinking too much.

“It was something,” Wil supplemented as he helped buckle Obake into the backseat, “And educational, apparently, so that’s a plus.”

“We were there at the tail-end,” Eugene added helpfully, “It was kind of entertaining.”

“You sure you can take care of this?” Kanan asked Wil.

Wil looked at Obake and sighed, “We’ll be alright. Thanks, anyways.”

“See you at the next heist meet, babe!” Eugene blew a kiss.

“Tell Raps and Hera I said hi!” Wil called back as they drove off.

“And here I thought I’d be picking you up at the police station for a bar brawl,” Kei half joked.

“Stay with me, Bob!” Wil shook Obake gently, “Don’t go to sleep. First rule in treating alcohol poisoning.”

“Piss off...” Obake slurred.

Wil sighed and let his head sink against the headrest for a few moments. Why didn’t he just become an accountant like his parents wanted?

“Wil...” Obake said sluggishly, “In..in the...event...I survive this with my memory intact. Would you...do it again?”

Wil blinked in surprise and chuckled weakly, “Only if you watch what you drink next time, lightweight.”

“Momma’s boy.”

“Evil Brit.”

“Four Eyes.”

“Nnnnnnnnnnneeeee~rrrrrrrrrds!” Kei cackled as her passengers bickered with each other without any former hostility from before.

[moonflower-31]

I Won't Forget You - Spencer Reid x Reader

(This is gonna be a series, so keep an eye out for this one if you like it.)

Summary: So imagine you're in the CM universe if you will. And you're just graduating from the academy. You're looking to join the BAU. You have hyperthymesia, the ability to never forget anything. Except for rare occasions. After the final exam, you run into one Dr. Spencer Reid. Eventually, you get accepted to shadow the BAU on a trial run as an agent. But you have a past that may endanger those you work with. Also, you love Spencer. Cause who doesn't?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader (this makes sense only for storyline, sorry 😞)

Masterlist

Please leave comments! I love reading them ❤ 💕

~~~~~~~~

Nervous. So dreadfully nervous you were and am. But here we are. No turning back now. 

"Hello, cadets. And welcome to your final exam for your graduation. We hope all of you do well. The FBI, as you know, has many branches. 56, to be exact. We hope that for those of you who pass, that you'll find your calling in one of our offices. For those of you who don't, don't fret. We always allow you to retake the last semester and the exams. The FBI is in desperate need of new agents." The speaker in front of me is seriously loud. Though you don't dare speak up about it. 

Associate Deputy Director Gail Franklin spoke with such elegance. She obviously has had practice, you think to yourself as you watch the grey-haired woman speak atop the raised portion of the testing room. You couldn't count how many people even if you tried. And you don't forget anything. 

"Psst!" 

You groan quietly and try to ignore your idiot but golden-hearted friend who couldn't sit still. 

"Psst! (Y/N)!"  

You ignore him again, focusing on Franklin's closing commentary.  

"I wish you all good luck. Please refrain from beginning your exam until all test-takers have received their tests. Thank you." She then proceeded to turn and begin her trek out of the room, the click of her heels being the only reminder she was even here. 

"Psst-! Come on, (Y/N/N)!" 

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. Finally, you turn your head and give your dear friend a very annoyed look. "What is it, Gabe? Like seriously, you couldn't sit still through one teansy tiny lecture? From the ADD herself?" You tease, pulling out a #2 pencil from your bag. Sure, most everyone will be using pens, but you remembered that the test scanners prefered graphite.

Gabriel whined teasingly at your jap. "No fair, (Y/N/N)! I just wanted to talk to one of my best friends. That too much to ask?" He sassily remarks, flipping his floppy golden-brown hair. 

You rolled your eyes and couldn't help but feel a smile form on your face. You loved him like a brother. But that also meant he annoyed you like one too. 

"You couldn't have waited till she was done?" You couldn't help but question him further. It was one of his weaker points. Under pressure, he tended to get uncomfortable. 

"Nope." Popping the 'p' he blew a kiss at you. "Anyway, how prepared do you think you are for this test? I almost made it an all-nighter trying to cram everything in again. Fuck me and my terrible memory." You grinned and giggled under your hand. 

"Gabriel, I told you, if you ever needed help studying I would be there. You're gonna do fine." 

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Easy for you to say. You didn't even have to study with that god-given gift of a memory you got." 

You bite the inside of your cheek, faking a slight chuckle. Everyone thought remembering everything was a superpower. Sure, if you call superpowered headaches and occasional dizzy spells a super-side-effect. 

So, yes, you had the 'gift' of having hyperthymesia. The disorder where you never forgot anything. Of course, there were a few rare occasions, like you could only remember a handful of memories from before you were four. But other than that, you had nothing from your earliest childhood. It made you feel semi-normal. 

"It isn't a gift, Gabe. It's only a gift in the academic field. And I'm lucky to have a 'genius' IQ." You huffed in response to Gabriel's little comment. 

"Yeah yeah, but you have a filing cabinet for a memory. So why study? You have it all up there." He asks, taking the test packet from the assistant that had finally made it to him. 

"Studying, as a science, is a great way to improve your memory, quicken your speed of processing data and important information, and you stretch your mind's capacity for learning. Also it helps me understand a topic better. Just like anyone else." 

You take the packet from the assistant and widen your eyes slightly at the size. It was massive. At least the size of your tiniest textbook. You could almost hear Gabriel whimper next to you as he saw how big the packet was. At least you all had three and a half hours. And it wasn't required to get through all of them. Just try to do your best on the written response ones.

You turn to Gabriel and hold out your fist. "Good luck." 

Gabriel sighed and gave you a smile before pumping his fist gently against yours. Soon after he made a dramatic explosion noise that only you could hear. You roll your eyes and shake your head again, turning your full attention finally to the large test in front of you. 

Here goes nothing, you tell yourself. 

○●♡●○  

Remarkably, you think you did okay. Of course, you finished the test in the first hour and a half, but who's counting? Certainly not you. 

You rub your aching wrists from so much essay work as you exit the testing room. Even with an unbeatable memory like yours, your hands were still human. So they hurt like a bitch. 

You sigh and take a quick seat on the bench outside the room, probably sticking out like a sore thumb in a crowd of other cadets who weren't in your graduating class. But you tried not to pay it any mind. You were used to being the 'odd man out'. 

You check your phone and smile down at the message your other friend, Iris, had sent you. She wasn't testing for the FBI like you and Gabe. No she was a barista with some mean skills at mixing new drinks. She wanted to open her own cafe and Gabriel and you wanted to support her. She'd been there for you every second of the last five years. You owed her at least a little thanks. 

When you look up, you couldn't help but notice a tall, lanky looking man with long, curly hair walking towards you as he looked for…something. You couldn't tell. Probably a map. He had a gun holstered on the side of his belt along with a blurry ID you couldn't read from so far away. But it looked like it said FBI. 

You stifled a soft snicker. This guy could say he was a teacher's assistant and if he didn't have the gun on him, you would've believed him. 

And that's when you caught his eye and instantly you recognized who this lost puppy was. More specifically, who he belonged to. 

"Hi, uh I'm Dr. Spe-" he began, looking a bit nervous as he began to introduce himself. 

"Dr. Spencer Reid. From the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I've heard of you." You accidentally interrupt. "Sorry. I don't forget names easily. I don't forget them ever, really." 

Nervously, you rub your hand on your neck, waiting for his response. And surprisingly, it wasn't one you expected. 

Spencer widened his eyes a bit in wonder that someone knew of him that he hadn't met before on a case. And she knew which branch he worked in. He blushed a bit, growing a tad tongue tied. 

"S-sorry, I'm Cadet (L/N)." 

Spencer raised an eyebrow. He wondered why you didn't give him your first name. But he didn't pry. It was your personal business. And besides, it wasn't like he needed to know your first name. 

"U-uh yeah, actually. I-I wanted to ask you if you knew where I could get a glimpse of a map. Just so I can find my way around. I'm here for a 'lecture' that I'm helping give the graduating class of FBI agents." He couldn't help but brag a tiny bit. "It doesn't start for another 3 hours, but I like to be prepared." 

You smiled up at this tall nerd. And an incredibly cute one at that. He was so out of place you sympathized with him. He was basically you. In like, every academic scene you've ever been in. 

"Understandable. I'll be seeing you there hopefully. I'm a part of that class." You grinned. "But yeah, here's the map," you say, pulling up a digital map on your phone. Spencer leaned over your shoulder and looked it over. You couldn't help but shiver slightly at the sound of his breathing so close to your ear. It felt eerily calming. 

"Really?" He asked after he pulled away from your shoulder. "T-thank you for the map, by the way." He adds last-minute. You giggle gently and nod. 

"Yep. The test only started an hour and about 45 minutes ago, so I gotta wait a little while." Groaning playfully you shrug at him, crossing your arms to get more comfortable. You wouldn't lie, he was seriously cute. Of course, you'd seen him before on your secret internet dives. But in-person was so much better than sitting behind a screen gawking over a photo. An ID photo no less. 

"You already finished?" 

There it was. The immediate doubt of your intelligence everyone had when you accidentally showed your smarts. You sighed. "Yeah. Kinda hard not to with an IQ of 167 and a memory that pretty much never fails." You shrugged nervously, looking away as you braced yourself for his incoming doubt. 

"Oh. Hyperthymesia, right?" He inquires. You blink a few times and look at him like he just said something so foreign you didn't know how to respond. 

"U-uh...y-yeah. It's rare, but I got it. How'd you know?" 

"It was more of an educated guess. See, you bite the inside of your cheek when you're nervous," he points out. You in fact, were biting your cheek as he spoke. "And you seem unintimidated by me despite knowing of my position. You only grew nervous when I mentioned anything academic. Which proves to me you're used to being the smartest kid in the room. And having to explain why every time." He finishes, leaving you a gigantic puddle of impressed and embarrassed that he had profiled all of that from only a few minutes from conversation. 

"Geez, didn't expect to get profiled today. You're really good at it, you know. Well, I mean you would be. 'Cause you w-work for the BAU." You begin to ramble, groaning internally for suddenly turning into an awkward blob in front of this professional. 

Spencer smiled a bit wider and let out a soft laugh. "So, y-you want to work for the BAU?" 

You look at him puzzled for a moment before you remember that he'd been profiling you for the past five or so minutes. "Right, profiler…" you mutter. "Y-yeah. It's kinda been a dream of mine for years. Police officer never really appealed to me. I wanted to get into the real deal. Catch the hard criminals. Give myself a challenge, you know?" You rattle off, realizing just how comfortable you'd grown to Spencer in the short conversation you've had. 

Spencer nodded. "It was always a dream of mine as well. I was kinda groomed for it." He admitted. "S-so… any jitters at all? Did you know that t-the common feeling of nervousness or 'butterflies' is actually caused by the reduced blood flow to the abdomen. Your stomach's sensory nerves sense the lack of oxygen and blood and it produces the fluttery feeling you get before a test or before a big performance." 

You smile brighter. "Really? I never thought of that. I always just thought it was a signal your brain sent or something. That's interesting. I'm kinda glad I won't forget that." 

Spencer felt his surprise increase again. You hadn't cut him off. There was no 'Sorry I asked' or awkward asking if he always did this. You actually listened. And you wanted to hear more! He didn't think he'd ever find someone willing to listen. 

"H-heh…" Spencer chuckled. "W-well did you know that most people will forget 50 percent of the information you've been taught in one hour will be forgotten? A-and in 24 hours more than 75% of the information is gone. That's why studying is so important. It helps retain that information so it doesn't 'slip' as easily." He begins to rattle off again, quite glad he found someone who actually wanted to hear his statistics. It was a good cover for his nervousness about talking to this incredibly gorgeous woman. 

You tilt your head in interest, laughing gently. "That's what I keep saying! Yet everyone always asks 'Why study if you remember everything?'" You exclaim, making a whiny voice expression for the impression of absolutely every bully you'd had ever. 

A darker skinned man, who was much more gifted physically walked over as you and Spencer continued your conversation. He wrapped an arm around Spencer teasingly and nodded to you. 

"Hope this pretty boy ain't bothering you baby girl." He greets. "He's great once you get to know him." 

Spencer just looks annoyed at this man's sudden presence. "Seriously, Morgan? We were actually having a conversation before you butted in." He grumbled annoyedly. Then you remember the face. This was SSA Derek Morgan. You'd seen him in some pictures with Spencer. He wasn't too bad looking. In fact, you knew Iris would climb him faster than a squirrel did a tree. But Spencer was a bit more your type. 

Morgan raised an eyebrow and smirked at you. "Oh really? So now pretty boy's talking to girls?" He teases, letting Spencer free from his suffocating hold. He then extends a hand out to me. "Derek-" he started. 

"Derek Morgan. SSA from the BAU. Yeah, I know about you." You grinned. He looked you up and down a bit in the same interest that Spencer had. That soon was replaced by a confident smile. 

"So you know of me." He said in a clearly flirtatious tone. "Don't tell me you've been searching up my pictures in your freetime, babygirl." He flirts. 

You roll your eyes and take his hand, shaking it firmly. "No, I haven't. Though I have heard of you from my classes. But if I'm honest?" You begin. "I'm really wishing I could forget that comment." You sassily respond. He laughed. 

"No one ever forgets, Babygirl." He grinned. 

Spencer sighed and turned to Morgan in annoyance. "Morgan." He deadpanned. You looked towards him and giggled a little. It was clear Spencer had wanted to talk to only you. Maybe it was something to do with the statistics. You had a feeling that he felt he was finally being listened to. 

"What? I'm just introducing myself to one of the new cadets." He insists, raising two hands up in defeat. 

"Did you just profile me without my permission?" You ask him with fake offense. He laughed. 

"Did I need to ask, sweetheart?" He asks. You chuckle. 

"Guess not." You shrug. 

"What's your name, beautiful? A pretty face has got to have a pretty name." He flirted. 

"I'm Cadet (L/N)."

Morgan raised an eyebrow, fully ready to ask why the hold-up on your first name when Spencer thankfully saved you an explanation. 

"She didn't share it with me either. Probably a mode of trust." He explains. Morgan shrugged. 

"I'll find out eventually. You'll give it away." He insists. 

"Uh huh, sure I will." You tease. 

"Reid, Morgan, we need to prepare." You hear a third voice call the two men away from you. You stand a bit on your tiptoes to get a good look at who it was that was speaking. 

Aaron Hotchner walked towards the three of you almost with a purpose. So much confidence in one man. 

"Who is this?" He asked. 

"I'm Cadet (L/N), Agent Hotchner. It's a pleasure to meet you." You greet, holding out a hand to him. Hotch raised an eyebrow at you in interest before shaking your hand in earnest. 

"It's a pleasure to meet you as well. I've heard of your excellent grades and work in your studies. I hope to see you among the enlistees requesting the BAU." He greets, letting his hand fall back to his side. 

"That's the plan, Agent Hotchner." You chip pleasantly. Morgan seems genuinely surprised.  

"Wait, you're interested in the BAU? Profile me." He insisted. You blush from the sudden spotlight. 

"W-what?" You ask. 

"Morgan, that's enough." Hotch warns. 

"Leave her alone, Morgan." Spencer expressed. 

"No, it's fine." You assure. "Well, from the looks of your attire compared to your colleagues, I'd say you hate wearing formal clothing. Prefer to be comfortable. Your consistent flirty personality is mostly a show, as you wouldn't really flirt with someone you just met the way you flirted with me. So you either have someone in mind, or have a partner at home. And besides that, the way you greeted Dr. Reid proves you think of him as a younger brother, and you treat him like the brother you never had." You finished, a pleading voice in the back of your head screaming at you in hopes that you hadn't gone too far. 

Instead of being offended, Morgan began to smile and grinned, clearly impressed. "She's actually pretty good." He comments to Hotch, glancing to Spencer and then back to you. "You'd make a good profiler." He compliments. You smile happily and full of relief at him. 

"I sure hope so. Anyway, you should probably get going to the auditorium. The mics are a pain to tune and figure out, so I'd get it done now." You giggle slightly. 

Spencer nodded and smiled at you. "T-thank you, again. Cadet (L/N)." 

You couldn't help but blush a tad as he said your title. "Of course, Dr. Reid. Anytime you need directions." You tease. 

Morgan raised an eyebrow. "What about me?" He teased back. You mock think about it for a moment before you reply. 

"Sorry, I think you can figure it out, pretty boy." You joke, winking at him. He smiled brightly at your sass, chuckling a bit. 

Hotch then got your attention very easily. "It was a pleasure to meet you again, (L/N)." 

"You too. Good luck on the lecture." You bid them all fair well and turn around to take your seat again. 

"Ooh, somebody's in looove~!" You hear Gabriel sing in a sing-song voice. You chuckle and shake your head. 

"I am not in love, Gabriel. You just started eying the pretty boy I was talking to. You know, handsome black guy?" You tease. 

"Hmm, yeah, probably. But seriously. I saw you looking at that other kid, the professor's-aide-looking guy, like he was a mountain of sugar. And I know sugar." He teased, sipping a coke he had obviously bought after the test. 

"Oh shut up. Have you heard from Iris yet?" You ask. 

"Nope. She's probably busy over at The Bean. We should go visit. Tell her about your rendezvous with Mr. Teacher's aid." Gabriel snickered. 

"No, we are not telling Iris anything. You know how she gets. She gets all protective, and then nobody wants to go out with me cause they're all scared of her." You groan, stealing his coke for a moment. 

Gabriel smirks at you. "So you admit that you like him?" He teases. You immediately realize your mistake and groan, covering your reddening face. 

Gabriel chuckled and wrapped an arm around your shoulder. "Come on, sugar-tits. Let's get out of here for a lil' bit. Come back for that 'lecture' in like an hour." He teased. You bring your hands away from your face and sigh. 

Did you really like him? Maybe. It was probably just an internet crush. Nothing more. It wasn't like it could get worse. 

[thesleepy1]

Death’s Imminent Door

A/N: I need more Eskel fics. That’s all. Also, writing prompt from @whumpster-dumpster “Kiss with bruised lips”. There was also, “Dying breath kiss,” and, “Kiss with trembling lips,” but I thought we’ll go for something more light hearted today. I thought, but let this be a warning that I’m not good at fluff. Unbeta’d as always. 

 Pairings: Eskel x Reader

 Summary: You’re injured in a fight defending Eskel’s honor.

 Word count: 1651

 Warnings: Violence, blood, injury, language, hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, suggestive language, whump,

 To be fair you shouldn’t have even been there. Eskel had long retired for the night and was peacefully sleeping in the room upstairs. You on the other hand wanted another drink. That was a mistake. 

 Everything was fine for the most part. You enjoyed a tankard, a drop of ale sliding down the corner of your mouth. There was a bard, not Geralt’s, singing in the tavern. Some song about sleeping with a goat or some sort of lucid dream the man had. You weren’t sure and at the time you didn’t really care. 

 “Just like that witcher!” 

 You sobered instantly at the mention of your partner in hand and trail. “What did you just say?!” you slurred, slamming your almost empty tankard down. A tremble shot up your arm but you shook it off, standing as tall as your drunk self could allow. “Say that to my face, bastard!”

 “Oh it’s the witcher’s bed warmer.”  

 “With a dick as big as his, gladly!” You took large strides to the equally drunk man who had dared to taint Eskel’s honor. To your surprise he was the same height and of a smaller build. All talk and no bite. This fight will be easy...unfortunately for you, it was not.

 “Oh, so you admit you spread your legs for that goat fucker!” the man yelled, spit flying out of his mouth. He stank of ale and week old hay, likely a local stable man. 

 “At least he’s not the one letting the horses outside fuck his ass open,” you shot back, an audience growing. The bard was strumming a tone played at debates and tense scenes in plays. He would have gotten on your nerves if you weren’t focused at the scum of the continent in front of you. 

 “What did you just call me?” 

 “Sorry, do you still have horse cu-” 

 Before you knew it a fist came in harsh contact with the side of your face. Too drunk to stay afoot you fall back onto the table behind you. A couple enjoying their date lept in surprise at your semi conscious figure on their dinner. 

 “Too busy getting fucked to learn how to fight?” 

 “No,” you stumbled out, standing on wobbling feet. “Just too busy riding your h-” Another punch came your way but this time you blocked it, twisting his arms and slamming his body on the floor. He groaned and choked out a sob, grabbing onto your unsteady leg. Pulling it forward he brought you down onto the floor with him. 

 Out of the corner of your eye as you fell, a barmaid scurries upstairs to where Eskel rests. “Already cheating on that witcher with the pretty barmaid?” the man brought your attention back to himself. 

 “I wouldn’t dream of it,” you roll yourself on top of him, straddling his torso and sending fist after fist to his face. Your knuckles were bleeding and he was screaming, bloodied face such a beautiful sight. It was a joy before someone roughly pulled you off of him. 

 “Get off of him, you bastard!” a different barmaid shouted, tugging at your arms and for some reason your clothes. 

 “Hold the fucker down,” the man on the floor ordered, slowly pulling himself together with whimpers. Blood was trickling down his neck and his clean shirt was red with it all. You couldn’t help but smirk at your handiwork.

 “What are you smirking at?” 

 “I saw a big stallion in the stable earlier. You were brushing his coat awfully well. One could only think why-” 

 With the new barmaid holding you down and the man on his feet you really should’ve shut up but you couldn’t help it. His fists were smaller than yours but packed the same amount of force. While you enjoyed watching as blood coated his face, smiling even. He was getting angrier and angrier. Each punch was worse than the one before and that was prior to when he brought his booted foot into the mix. 

 Your groans began to fill the tavern but were mostly drowned out by the cheers of the crowd. The bard began a quicker tune, leaping up onto a table to dance. He twirled and sang like you weren’t being beaten to a pulp. The couple whose date you ruined joined the man in the fun, trading hits and cheers.

 The ale in your system helped with most of the pain but you could feel your body going slack. Unconsciousness was edging it’s way into your mind. Sleep seemed like a blissful option in comparison to the beating, but waking up wasn’t guaranteed. 

 Oh wouldn’t that be a sight, Eskel waking up to take a new contract the next town over only to see your unmoving husk of a form on the floor. Dried blood coating your barely recognizable face, your clothes torn and ripped from your still body. You weren’t sure what the barmaid wanted with your clothes but she would probably take them off if given the chance. 

 He would be angry, livid really. Sobbing in the dead of night where no one could judge him. The two of you weren’t the type to constantly tell each other you loved them throughout the day. You showed that with actions. Helping him sharpen his swords, setting up camp, defending his honor in a bar fight. 

 Unable to bear to see his grief stricken face, you hesitantly opened your eyes. They were swollen, that was obvious even without a mirror. And the rest of you wasn’t fairing all that well either, but you were alive. That was something to be proud of. 

 “Oh look, the bed warmer is awake,” the man taunted, taking your tankard and pouring what remained over your head. The ale against your open wounds stung and you gasped, biting your tongue to suppress a scream. 

 “What are you stopping for? I want to mark up this pretty skin,” the barmaid snarled behind you with a grin. The tavern suddenly grew quiet. Even the bard stopped playing, stepping down from the table, his eyes never left what was behind you. 

 Your movement was limited but you managed to look over your shoulder. Eskel in all of his shirtless, disheveled glory was at the foot of the stairs, a glare and the remanence of potions evident on his face. His eyes were a dulling dark gray, the black veins faded but still present. Gods and whoever was listening you wanted him to stare you down as he took you against the wall. Unrelenting in his haste to finish and rough with need. 

 “Lovely evening isn’t it, love,” you greeted nonchalantly, unable to feel your legs.

 “Care to tell me what happened?” Eskel asked in fake calmness. You have been with him long enough to know when he was seconds from stabbing the nearest person in the heart.  

 “Oh nothing much, love. Just some imbecile, horse fucker, baby killing, grime under my foot, bastard decided it was wise to call you some ill choice words in my presence,” you explained, your eyes drooping in an attempt to stay awake. You were alive, you told yourself. Eskel will be fine. You will be fine. Just a night’s rest and you will be as good as new the next morning. 

 “Would you like to tell me who?” his dark gaze swept across the room. Everyone was frozen in their place, smart enough to know when they were at death’s imminent door. 

 “Just her, him, and those two,” you gestured with your eyes but was unsure how much Eskel was able to catch. He could always smell the blood from their bleeding knuckles, so really you had no need to keep your eyes open. “That annoying bard had something to do with it but I can’t remember.” 

 You didn’t have the energy to keep your head on your neck and just let it fall. The barmaid dropped you immediately, but Eskel was quick enough to catch you. He grabbed onto you, his grip a little too tight in sensitive areas but he lightened his hands when he noticed the spike in your heart beat. A growl was building deep within his chest from the sight of your injured form. 

 “I recommend you run while you can,” Eskel spoke to the people in the tavern, already having memorized the faces and scents of the people you pointed out. He’ll give them mercy, a night before he ripped their spines from their backs and their egos from their groins. 

 “Can you stay awake for me, darling?” Eksel whispered to you, his arms underneath your legs and chest. 

 “Only If you’ll have me against the wall,” you mumbled, barely able to sense what was happening. Before you knew it you were in the inn room, a still warm bed underneath your aching body. 

 “Just open your eyes for me, darling,” Eskel forced out a timid chuckle. An ache grew from your chest, and not due to the beating. Your poor witcher was afraid you wouldn’t wake up when the sun came up. He had nothing to worry about. You could still feel the upper half of your body. That was something. 

  “Can’t get enough of my beautiful orbs?” you joked, your voice much weaker than you realized. Some job you did reassuring him, he sounded like he was about to cry. 

 “Never enough.” He planted a soft kiss onto your bruised lips. So caring in your injury, he made sure to not apply too much pressure onto the wounds. 

 Before you woke the next day, because you did, although a bit late into the noon, Eskel had gone out to hunt. Not for food, oh no. For sport. 

 Five bodies laid in the stables for the stable boy to see; the stable man, a couple, a barmaid and a bard with the neck of his gittern through his own neck. 

[ablackfangirlwrites]

Weak

A/n: so I've learned that my favorite gojou to write is tsundere gojou so this is the product of that and I caught up with the manga

Warning: blood mention, death mention

“I hate weak people, and you Y/n are weak,” Gojou spat those words to you while staring down at you with those piercing cold ocean eyes. He just saved you from a curse you had been fighting and failing to defeat.  You sat there helplessly and shivered at those callous words he spoke to you. 

“You don’t have to be so mean Gojou,” Suguru Getou said approaching you and reaching out a hand to help you up. “Y/n is strong in her own way,” he said with a smile. You hadn’t even noticed the darker man there, but you should have known better If Gojo was here Getou wasn’t far off.

You heard Gojo click his tongue as a response, But your eyes were now  fixed on the much kinder man, Suguru as he helped you, “Are you alright Y/n?” 

You nodded, “Yes thank you…” you said in a small voice, Ashamed that they had to rescue you on a mission that shouldn’t have been a problem. “I- I had it under control.”

“Of course that’s why we’re here,” Gojou said with an eye roll pushing past the two of you Gojou as he started to walk off making sure he brushed your shoulder aggressively, “Don’t baby her Getou.” 

“I’ve gotten a lot better Gojou!,” you yell out after him defending yourself. “I almost had it!” You hoped that would make him back down a bit, and kill some of the tension between you. But Gojou didn’t respond to you instead he continued to walk; heading back to jujitsu high and all that did was make you feel worse.  

 “You have Y/n,” Getou smiled patting you on your head to try and console you, “You’ve improved a lot, and if you keep taking on missions I don’t doubt that you’ll get even better.” 

“You’re better isn’t good enough,” Gojou said curtly.” His harsh words only hurt you more than any curse could and so you went into silence; biting your lip determined not to cry as the three of you continued to walk.

A few days had passed since that exchange between the two of you and things would have gone back into their same mundane routine.; like today,  It was a leisure day at the school and the two friends Gojou and Getou were sitting on the outside steps talking; when they noticed You walking by talking with Utahime. Seeing you reminded Suguru of a question he had been meaning to ask Gojou since the last time the three of you were together. 

“Why are you so harsh with her?” Suguru asked, his eyes never leaving you as you walked by.

Gojou’s eyes were also glued to you ask you went by with Utahime he shrugged, “She’s weak.” 

“She’s no worst than any other one of our classmates.” 

“I don’t like them very much either,” Gojou half heartily joked. 

Suguru laughed, “Yes, but your treatment of Y/n is just way harsher like you have a personal vendetta against her If I recall correctly the two of you used to be close?”

The two of them had a clear view of you as you now stood there with your friend talking.

Gojou sighed mentally pushing down the odd feeling he felt in his stomach whenever he saw you, “Things change.” 

-

“He’s staring at you,” Utahime said to you annoyance clearly in her voice.

You could feel his and Getou’s hard stares at you. No doubt they were talking about you. Probably discussing the failure that you were and how pathetic it was that they had to come and save you the other day, “He hates me,” you sigh. 

She was now glaring at the two, “Tch, so what if he does?” When she turned to face you she now held a softer expression, “That means you don’t have to deal with the jerk.” 

Sorrow was clear in your eyes, “You know why.” 

Those words made Utahime roll her eyes, “Right,” She said dryly, “I forgot about your old silly little crush.” 

“It’s not silly,” You told her with a matter-of-fact tone. It was true you had taken a liking to him after meeting him, much like many girls who saw him with the exception of Utahime of course. “It’s a logical reaction after seeing him and-and-It’s-It’s never gonna happen.” You stuttered, “Like I said he hates me.” 

The change in your tone made Iori feel a little sympathy towards you, “Hey, He doesn’t even deserve you anyway.” The two of you sat down at a nearby bench and continued to talk.

“It’s not about him deserving me,” you explained to her “He doesn’t even respect me as a sorcerer-hell he doesn’t even respect me as a person. He thinks I’m weak.”

“And that’s exactly why I say screw him,” She said going back in a plain voice, “Him and Geto are on another level, people like them will always think there better and the rest of us are weak.”

You knew her words rang true, The was definitely no way you or anyone you knew would ever get on the same level as Gojo, and it was pointless to try to. But that’s not really what was bothering you what bothered you were the words he spoke, That you were weak. 

You didn’t want to be weak not by his or anyone else standers. You wanted no needed to be a stronger sorcerer. 

“Hey there, Y/n and Iori! You looked up to see Shoko waving at you as she walked along the path with Gojou and Getou.

Iori immediately went to them hugging her and started talking abandoning you to walk with them. Getou waved your way, and you gave him a smile back. He was infinitely kinder than Gojo, but you couldn’t find yourself holding him up to the same regard as Gojo, after all even between those two Gojou still came on top, and he wasn’t the one who called you weak.

As you watched them pass by you caught eyes with Gojo making your smile wash away as he gave you an eye roll.

What did you do to him to make him hate you so much? It couldn’t just be because you were weaker than him. You won’t say the two of you were ever close, but there was a time that the two could have a friendly conversation and joke but then one day something changed and he started to despise you. 

You didn’t have a clue, but wanting nothing more than to just be acknowledged by him you decided you would focus harder on becoming a powerful sorcerer

-

Months had passed since that day, and as usual, Gojou kept his distance from you. All while you stayed focused and trained. And eventually, you did get stronger so much so that you were up for a promotion and would be going up to grade 1. 

You were excited. Which meant you had gotten stronger. You weren’t grade 1 yet, But this was your chance. you were close you could taste it, But what was really on your mind was now  Gojou was going to have to acknowledge you soon. 

He wouldn’t be able to call you weak. And he won’t hate you. And maybe just maybe things could go back to how they were.

“I heard you’ll be going on your solo Mission soon,” Someone spoke right as you had just left your dorm room. Making you jump.

You turned to the right to see it was none other than Gojou.

Shocked,  surprise, startled were words that could barely cover what you were feeling. This was the first time he spoke to you in months and it wasn’t an insult or reprimand. 

You coughed and nodded shyly, “Um, yes. I got a recommendation- And I’ve been going on missions, but next week I take on a grade one by myself.” 

Gojou peered over his sunglass looking at you. He was clearly studying over you but for what you weren’t exactly sure but he settled with a simple sentence “Take care then.” And just like that, he was gone. Leaving you totally confused. 

-

Uneasy, Nervous, on edge, those were just a few words that could describe the emotions going through Gojou’s head when he found out you’d be taking on a grade 1 curse.

You weren’t strong enough yet. If you were him and Geto wouldn’t have had to save you those months back. You were going to end up getting yourself killed. And the thought of that left dread in his mind. 

He might have treated you coldly, but that didn’t necessarily mean that’s how he truly felt about you. If he was honest he was crazy about you. And it was that reason why he pushed you away so hard. 

Because your fragileness scared him.

Gojou’s mind played back when everything had changed in your relationship. When the two of you were younger and much closer. You had simply fallen over injuring your hand and arm, it wasn’t anything major but you scrapped it. 

Gojou looked at the small amount of blood that was smeared on you.

He has always known your line of work was dangerous, but something about that moment registered in Gojo’s head as a tragedy. You were so fragile- so weak. A little fall and you were bleeding. And if a small fall could do this, what if you fell from somewhere higher? Or what if it was a curse? It was disgusting. He was disgusted with himself how could he be with someone so weak? Someone who could leave him destroyed if something happened to them?.  That’s how he determined that he couldn’t be with you. 

That was also when he decided he hated the weak. Especially you.

But those were just words. Words he thought would change his feeling towards you, but they didn’t. The only thing those words succeeded in was pushing you away. 

And now you were on a mission all alone, and he couldn’t save you this time. This time you had to be strong 

“Are you worried about Y/n?” Getou asked him. 

Gojou hadn’t realized he had been doing a lot of pacing since the moment he found out you left. Wondering how the mission was going for you.

“When you think about it,” Gojou continued, “You’re the one who really pushed her to get stronger. So if she dies it’s on you.” 

Getou had a smile in his voice, but  Gojou didn’t find his words amusing at all. He knew his friend was just attempting to rail him up to change his mind off you but this method we’re appreciated 

“What makes you think I’m thinking about Y/n and how her missions going,” Gojou scuffed. 

That only made Getou laugh, “Probably the fact that since you’ve found out about her grade q mission you’ve been unnaturally quiet.” 

Gojou rolled his eyes at him, “I’m not thinking about Y/n.”

Getou smiled at his friend knowing the truth, “Whatever you say.” 

-

You made it back from your solo mission it was considered a success. But that didn’t mean you weren’t left with a few injuries that left you in the doctor’s office. 

What didn’t expect to wake up in the doctor’s office yet here you were,. You had tried to playback the full events of the fight but you don’t remember the details only that  you had finished exorcising the curse 

You rubbed your eyes trying to adjust them to the light as you started to sit up. 

“So you’re finally up,” putting your hands down you saw it was Gojou.

Frowning you spoke up, “Gojou?” 

“You changed your hair.” He said paying with one of your box braids in between his long fingers.” 

“Yeah, I put them in right before I went on the mission.” 

“Oh,” And he went back into the silences as though he was thinking about something deeply.

He had been acting strangely before you had left and once again he was being strange now that you got back. Not wanting to be a rider on the ride that was Gojou Satoru you called out to him, “Gojo...Why are you here-” 

Before you could finish your question Gojou had moved closer to you moving his hand from your hair to your chin slightly lifting it making you stare into his azul eyes and he used this moment of distraction to take your lips in a soft kiss.

He pulled back much too quickly for your liking. Rubbing your bottom lip with his thumb deep in thought he stared at you,, “Gojo-” you started again.

“That’s your rewarded for not dying on me,” he smiled cutting you off before leaving you to wondering if there were any other meanings behind his words

[primasveraas-writing]

And In Darkness, I Stand- Chapter 4

Kallus' leg is never quite the same after Bahryn. But then again, neither is he.

1  2 3 4 5

4. Yavin IV

“Captain Kallus.”

Kallus turns the best he can, gripping the handle of his cane as he does. Zeb is making his way over, his tall frame parting the flow of traffic in the hall.

“Kal,” Zeb amends with a smile, brushing a hand against the small of Kallus’ back. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Kallus nods, and grimaces. “I don't suppose I can use my position to get out of physical therapy?”

“No. I’ll still carry you there myself if I have to.”

Heat flames across Kallus’ cheek, but there’s nothing he can say to defend himself. His daily routine has been centered around his recovery for weeks, despite his protestations. On his first day back, he reported to Command for an extra few hours rather than going to the medbay, which caused a small uproar among the likes of Hera and Zeb. The resulting situation was a lecture from Zeb and the entire medical staff, as well as a warning from Command as to where his priorities should lie.

But aside from the initial excitement, Kallus has settled in quite well. He has his own post and a small command to his name. He’s been forgiven by the Rebels in an official capacity, and has learned when to ignore the snide comments made by his less-forgiving compatriots. For the most part, his job is normal and steady- he’s in the company of fellow spies most of the time, but everyone on Yavin is well acquainted with danger, regardless of their roles within the Rebellion. He nearly fits in.

It would be better if he were not so limited by his physical ability. He cannot stand on his leg unsupported, so he has been using a cane constantly, save for a few small excursions across his quarters, which, so far, have been painful and short-lived.

Suddenly, Kallus is bad at keeping himself out of trouble, between his efforts to heal and his apparently lacking self-care habits. This is yet another change he attributes to rebel influence, but he rather likes it, even if he is adjusting to this new life slowly.

“You’re improving and you’re not going to stop now,” Zeb growls. He may as well be threatening Kallus, who minds this fact very little. His hand tightens on his cane.

“I know,” Kallus breathes, and drops his gaze. His next step forward is slightly unsteady, but he’s overly aware of Zeb watching him closely and that his friend is fully prepared to catch him should he trip.

Kallus hasn’t fallen in weeks. He can make it all the way across base without needing to rest now. The medics say the fracture is largely healed, and he thinks he must have made some kind of progress over the last few weeks.

“Are you coming with me?” Kallus tries not to sound too hopeful or excited; Zeb usually accompanies him to the medcenter for checkups and therapy, if only to ensure that Kallus himself actually attends.

“Of course.” Zeb glances at him. “‘Til you say you don’t want me there.”

“I do,” Kallus affirms, too quickly, and tries to discern if he’s blushing again. His face still feels hot.

They make their way down to the medcenter, where the staff greets him and Zeb both by name. The journey takes longer than he’d like, and Kallus tries not to count how many people pass him. It’s mid-afternoon by then, and his leg has started to twinge, although he turns away from Zeb and bites the inside of his cheek to get through the moments of pain.

Zeb steadies him as he strips off his jacket and boots, clutching Kallus’ left elbow. Kallus shoots him a grateful smile. He wobbles on one leg, unsteady, and he knows he will not fall.

“Ready?”

It’s not Zeb who asks, but a nurse. Cida Amada, who was one of the first people he got to know during his stay in the medcenter. She barely looks old enough to have such responsibility, with her shy smiles and soft tones, but she and Kallus took a liking to each other. They made each other cry, he lost in frustration and agony, and she hurt after discovering his tendency to yell and swear when in crippling pain. Yet once he had apologized, their relationship improved, and Amada became his primary caretaker, which most predominantly includes cajoling him into showing up for his appointments.

She and Zeb seem to adore each other for this fact. Kallus can only pretend he hates it so much.

He nods, his mouth suddenly dry, and she reaches out to take his hand. He lets her, and Cida smiles at him, not meeting his eyes for more than a few seconds.

“It’ll feel better later even if it’s uncomfortable right now, Alexsandr. How have the last few rotations been?”

She is gentle and kind. Forgiving, too, which is the strangest of offerings he’s even been gifted in his life. Kallus mostly expected to be dead by now, rather than guided through a half-stocked medbay by a medic exclusively trained by war doctors. Cida genuinely likes him, too, which is odd. Both Hera and Zeb had to assure him of this fact, though Kallus is sure she wouldn’t be capable of pretending otherwise. He first had doubts about the girl’s abilities as a liar since she apologized for taking a blood sample from him. She is too good to lie, which, he supposes, is why he’s a former Imperial-turned-spy, and she is a rebel war doctor.

Cida stretches his legs and guides him through a few exercises that should be simple but prove exceedingly difficult for Kallus. He has to touch his toes. Climb stairs. Walk 2 meters with support on either side. He grits his teeth and sweats through it, mumbling curses that Cida and Zeb pretend not to hear when he inevitably falters.

His hands shake for an hour afterward. Kallus showers and lies on his bunk, exhausted.

His leg feels better than it did before.

 Had he stayed with the Empire, Kallus would have received higher quality medical care.

He might not be stuck with a limp and a cane. 

First, he would have needed to swallow his damned pride and ask for treatment, and then the initial break would not have affected him for the rest of his life. The Imperial meddroids would have returned him to normal in a matter of days, if not weeks, and Thrawn would have never rebroken the leg, even if Kallus had pursued life as Fulcrum. The Empire is equipped with better resources and better training.

But he didn’t ask for help, not upon his return from Bahryn nor any of the painful days after. Konstantine didn’t even look up at him. If anyone noticed he was uncomfortable or weaker, they politely looked away and saved that topic of discussion for when his back was turned. Kallus was alone in caring for himself, and it was thus unimportant to everyone in the Empire, including him. He adopted the same attitude regarding his own health.

Hera had caught him when he collapsed, after Atollon. Cida cried when he cried because she hated seeing him in pain. Zeb has been there for him in more ways than he can count.

Sometimes, Zeb calls him Alex. He hasn’t had that nickname since he was a little boy- his parents never bothered with it and he had few friends by the time he entered the Imperial Academy.

Zeb is the only one, in his entire life, who has called him Kal.

That’s yet another thing they share. Kallus has gleamed that Zeb never fully revealed the truth of what happened on Bahryn, even to the rest of the Ghost crew.

He does not know what would be enough to repay the Rebels. They have so little, yet they give to him, in time and effort and supplies and trust. It would be more just if these things were diverted to another, not to a formal Imperial, but they will not let him refuse their generosity.

Kallus would give his life for these people. For Zeb and the Spectres, certainly, but for those he does not know, too. For the ones who hurl dirty looks and harsh words at him in the mess and hallways, for Cida, for the other Fulcrums, for every rebel on Yavin and the galaxy beyond.

His life would not be enough, when they are the very people who have given it back to him. Kallus’ life is marred and stained and broken. He can offer the rebels service and secrets and loyalty, and he will do all he can to see them to victory. 

He wonders about that, too. He would be more confident about winning the war were he still an Imperial agent. He is a man of facts and logic, and he knows that the odds are against the rebels to prevail over the Empire.

But he believes in the rebels. Kallus believes in their cause and their people. That alone has carried them further than Kallus ever predicted.

He would give his life for them without thinking. He gives his hope and keeps his doubt and his cynicism, heavy as they are, so that they do not burden those like Pica and Leia Organa and Ezra Bridger.

Even as a rebel, being a spy still demands a certain mindset of coldness and hardness. Kallus is learning mercy, and he is learning how mercy does and doesn’t fit into his role. Draven has told him more than once that they serve the cause of the Rebellion, not its people.

Kallus is not sure he agrees. Draven has the end of the war in sight, and that is what grants Kallus peace of mind while the familiarity of Draven’s words nags at him.

Draven has also told Kallus that he is still useful, despite his leg. The General had looked at Kallus with pity while he had said it. Kallus will prove him wrong, and his heart sings with a small amount of pride with the knowledge of the difference he has made already under and to Draven’s command.

Kallus is trying to be good in his new role. He is also trying to become someone worthy of the friendship and care that the rebels have shown him.

He wants to be accepted by them. He wants to be their friend.

 “Alexsandr!”

The use of his full first name startles him, nearly as much as the alarm in Zeb’s voice does. Zeb is staring at him from across the hangar, Hera by his size. The droid, Chopper, makes some obscene noise that Kallus can only assume is scolding.

The trio is at his side quickly, and Kallus grunts as he loads the shipment onto the shuttle.

“I can do that,” Hera says. She sounds mildly scandalized, and she takes the box from his hands. Chopper wags his mechanical arm at Kallus, and emits a horrifying cackle at the indignation on his face.

“No cane?” Zeb sounds surprised, but Kallus has had a good few days. He’s permitted not to use it for short amounts of time, given that his leg doesn’t start hurting. He and Cida are hoping that this will become the norm, that he will only need his cane some days. Kallus has floated the idea of field missions once or twice already, but he’ll push for more unsupervised walking first.

“Not for a while.” It’s nearly strange not to have the cane in his hand, but he’s been making good use of his free hands for a while. Then: “General, I assure you I am very capable of doing that.”

Kallus tries to take the next box from Hera, who passes to Zeb. In turn, he holds the box over their heads, then sets it in the shuttle.

“You could hurt yourself,” Hera chides. “Let us help you.”

“Lifting a few crates will hardly send me into critical condition,” Kallus protests, but the words are weakened when Hera glares at him. Chopper laughs again. “My leg is injured, not my arms.”

“No extra weight,” Zeb reminds him, taking another box from Hera. “Don’t strain yourself.”

“It’s just-”

“We’re happy to help,” Hera interrupts. She exchanges a look with Zeb, and Kallus bites back a retort. He’s perfectly capable.

The next time he sees Cida, Kallus is sure to mention lightening the restrictions on his carrying weight. She’s willing to negotiate, at the very least, and they argue until it’s agreed that Kallus can lift, but not carry, a few kilos. He’s sure to complain very little for the rest of the session, and the nurse sends him away with a smile at the end of the day.

She tells him he’s making progress; a statement constantly echoed by Zeb. Physical therapy becomes easier and less frequent; he’s fully adjusted to using his cane, although he has started to go many days without it. At first, it’s painful- he can only endure the day without his cane if he stays in Command, but then weeks pass and he can move around base on his own. He’s outfitted with temporary mechanical braces, and he goes on his first field mission as a rebel.

The days are not bad, and the initial mission goes smoothly, as do all the ones after that.

When night falls after he returns, Kallus can barely stand, and the pain reduces him mostly immobile.

Cida worms this fact out of him after he spends two rotations chasing down a rogue informant. He had been late to see her, and stiff and quiet during their appointment.

“You’ll make it worse,” she warns him. His leg has been swelling, too. “Too much at once will only hurt you.”

“I’m useful out there,” Kallus insists, staring at his injured leg. It would be a waste if he remained on base all the time. “If I can get stronger, then I can fight.”

Cida sighs, her eyes full of worry. Kallus looks away, his heart poisoned with guilt. “If you keep doing this, you may last a few months or a cycle. After that, you could spend the rest of your life walking with pain and assistance.”

He nods once. That’s as much time as he needs, regardless of what follows.

Kallus has greater potential than what his leg allows. He could be one of the best ground fighters on base, if his body worked right.

 “Does your leg hurt?”

Kallus grunts. “My leg always hurts.” He shifts, moving his lower body as little as possible, but Zeb moves into his full view a moment later.

“You shoulda said something on way back-”

“I’m fine, Zeb.”

“Your cane-”

“It hurts with or without the cane,” Kallus snaps, then averts his eyes. Zeb’s ears flatten, and Kallus’ stomach flips.

“Are you gonna use it now?” Zeb asks quietly. They still don’t look at each other.

Kallus reaches for the offending object and thumps it against the ground. “Yes,” he mutters. That’s the only reason he got here, in some dirty corner of the base. The cane saw him back from the medbay and into the spot where he had chosen to sulk.

Apparently, the covert location wasn’t quite private enough. That, or Zeb knows him too well, because he seems to have sought Kallus out with ease. But here he is, sitting on the floor with Kallus and watching the rest of the Rebellion walk by, totally oblivious to their discussion.

“Today is a bad day,” Kallus says. That’s how he measures time- in good days and bad ones. “I’ve been having a lot of those, recently.”

“You’ve been working hard.”

“I want to go back to normal,” Kallus mutters, rolling his eyes. “I’m sick of being weak. I’m tired.” He smiles at Zeb, his lips thin and pursed. “I’m done.”

“Alex.” Zeb is imploring.”How could you think you’re weak?”

“Because I can’t walk down the damned hallway!” Kallus scoffs. “Because I have gone through all this suffering and I am not better! And all I wish is that it would end!”

“That makes you weak, does it?”

“It doesn’t make me strong, Garazeb. Not the way you think I am.”

The Lasat next to him snorts. “Kal, I have seen you walk through hell and back-”

“That doesn’t make-”

“- I know how strong you are,” Zeb finishes, talking over him. “Do you trust me?”

Kallus blanches, his heart pounding. “Of course.”

“Then believe me when I say you’re strong.”

“I’ve never seen it that way.”

The words are nearly inaudible. It’s a shamefaced confession, and Zeb stares at him with wide eyes, taking both of Alexsandr’s hands in his.

“Just because I survived doesn’t mean I’m a martyr, Zeb. Or some inspiration to look up to.”

“That’s half of one of the many reasons I care for you,” Zeb whispers, his voice so, so low. “Not because you’ve managed to survive, but because of how determined you are. It’s the stupid face you make when you’re concentrating and the way your voice gets all high when you tell me about how fine and capable you are.” Zeb chuckles, and Kallus is very acutely aware that Zeb is sitting so close to him that their thighs are touching. “You’ve always been so damn stubborn.”

“You like that about me?” Some alarmed voice in Alexsandr’s head warns him that this is barely tangential to the topic at hand.

“Yeah.” Zeb’s ears twitch, and he drops his eyes from Kallus’ wondrous stare. “Even if it pisses me off.”

“I know it does.”

“Yeah,” Zeb growls, then he deflates as he sighs. “I’ve always known that about you. Even when you were trying to kill me.” He gestures to Kallus, to his brace and cane. “Seeing you recover is another way you’re proving this to me. Your absurd relentlessness. And your strength.” He glowers at Kallus when he says the last word, as if daring him to object. “You’ve always had that.”

“Someone better would have handled it with grace.”

“Maybe.” Zeb shrugs. “You’re tough, not a saint.”

“Thank you, Garazeb.”

Zeb rolls his eyes, shoving against Kallus’ shoulder gently. “Whatever.” He clears his throat. “Maybe all this made you stronger. I don’t care if you get back to normal, or whatever you’ve dreamed up for yourself. I only want you to be happy with where you were.”

“And go to physical therapy.”

“I don’t want you to be in pain.”

“Right.”

Zeb grins. “By the way, if you didn’t want the hurt from your serious injury to go away, then you’re twice as big of an idiot as I thought you were. I have no idea what else you expected.”

“I expected for it to last a few weeks. Not the rest of my life.”

“There’s nothing wrong with wishing for that.” Zeb looks up at the trees, and Kallus thinks of a burning world, razed to the ground by the Empire. Zeb didn’t come away from Lasan unscathed, he knows. “Whatever happens though, here you are, Kal. Even if all you’ve done is survive.”

Alexsandr reaches out for Zeb’s hand, and his friend takes it. Zeb’s words are muddled with affection and friendship and respect. The person Zeb describes sounds like someone Kallus can appreciate. Somebody with an iron will and a conviction for the right kind of things. Somebody worthy of love

 That night, Kallus cannot rest. He wanders the halls, on a dreadfully familiar path- the one Zeb takes him on when Kallus has to stretch out his leg. His feet carry him into the cool night air, his cane thumping against the stone after every uneven step.

Kallus searches for privacy, but he cannot make it far outside the base. There are still lights blinking from the hangars and a quiet bustle of nightlife shows that the base is still busy, but Kallus staggers along as far as he can and settles on a log under the cover of some trees.

“Can’t sleep?”

Alexsandr jumps, then he squints in the dark. Some 30 feet away is Kanan Jarrus, sitting on the forest floor with his legs folded beneath him. He appears to be meditating; his shoulder pauldrons and mask are off, and he sounds relaxed.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Kallus calls. He fumbles with his cane and readies himself to stand; he’s still slightly out of breath and now he has nowhere to go.

“No.” Kanan stands instead and approaches Kallus, nimbly stepping over branches and rocks. Kallus stares up at the blind Jedi, then averts his gaze when Kanan takes a seat next to him.

They sit together in silence. Kallus doesn’t mind the company very much; he fiddles with his hands and does his best to ignore the aching in his leg.

“It’s lonely, isn’t it?” Kanan says finally. He turns to Kallus expectantly.

Kallus gives a nervous chuckle. “What is?”

“Healing.” Kanan opens his hands as if he’s referring to the whole jungle, instead. “Even with the people who love you at your side.”

Kallus opens his mouth to protest- he’s not sure who loves him, even if a few people come to mind- but the depth of Kanan’s words hit him a moment later.

“I don’t-” Kallus struggles for the right words. “I don’t believe I’m alone.”

Kanan nods slowly. “I had Hera with me every step of the way. She’s the most understanding, caring person I know.” Then, Kanan shrugs. “But it was impossible for her to understand what it was like, no matter how hard she tried. It was lonely.”

“Yes,” Kallus says slowly, exhaling.  “Even- even-”

“Zeb doesn’t understand?” He can hear the humor in Kanan’s voice, although Kallus cannot piece together why Kanan would be amused. “I think that’d be impossible unless he’d been through it, too.”

“Do you know anyone who did?”

Kanan shakes his head. “Not quite.” He smiles, and again, Kallus can’t comprehend why. “I had to find solace in other places.”

“Do you think you’re on the other side?”

“Of recovery?” Kallus inclines his head. “Yes. It’s different now.” Kanan’s smile becomes wistful. “But there’s no going back.”

“You made it through.”

“I did. And you will too. In time.”

“I want it to be over.” The confession falls from Kallus’ lips before he can help it. “I’m so tired of being in pain.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think it will ever pass.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then…” Kallus sighs. “Then I move forward with it, anyway.”

There’s no other choice. He will stay with the rebels until the end, and he will do so however he can. He could lose his leg tonight or he could wake up entirely healed tomorrow morning. Either way, there will be little change to his plans.

“I thought you’d say that.” Kanan rests his hand on Kallus’ knee. “It gets easier.”

“I know.” It has already. Maybe Zeb is right. Maybe he is strong because of what he has survived, and maybe there’s truth to Kanan’s words, too. 

“I think you’ll find someone who makes it less lonely. I believe you’ll find yourself on the other side.”

Kallus bows his head in acknowledgment, suddenly exhausted. “Zeb will be yours again, once we get back from Lothal.” Kanan’s seriousness disappears, and Kallus knows the moment has passed. He can’t help that the corners of his lips are quirking up, and Kanan seems to both know and enjoy this fact.

“You leave soon?” The thought is bittersweet; the Lothal rebels returning home again, and Zeb will leave his side.

“Three rotations.” Kanan answers. His tone has become heavy again, but the Jedi does not sound afraid.

“I wish you luck.”

The earliest sign of civilization is a healed femur.

[purplesauris]

Hibernation

This is a prompt fill for day 19 of @witcher-and-his-bard winter prompts! Just as a warning, I will say there is implied character death, but NO actual death. 

Read it on AO3 here!

They were thoroughly snowed in. This was Jaskier’s third winter with the other witchers, and a storm had raged so fiercely the night before that none of them dared to venture outside. Instead, the witchers had cleared the main hall as best they could, pushing bookshelves against walls and using the small area to train. Jaskier had perched himself atop one of the rickety bookshelves, half watching, half writing as his witchers had spun and lunged around each other, sweating in the warmth of the room. This was a rare treat for Jaskier, who wasn’t one for sitting in the cold while the others trained. Vesemir, for all his years, moved as quickly as any of the others did, spinning between them and constantly changing who he targeted. It kept the others on their toes, and they flowed together like water, laughing when someone got knocked down and snarling when the edge of a dull blade slammed into them particularly hard.

When the sun comes out two days later, the witchers scatter like leaves in the wind, working to clear the courtyards and walkways again so that they didn’t have to dodge books that Lambert threw just to fuck with them in training. Jaskier gets the main room back into its regular messy disarray while they toil outside, heading out with steaming cups of tea when he can see even stubborn Lambert shiver. They all smile at him, taking a cup and clutching it with red fingers, huddling together and stomping their feet. 

They’re all talking, even Vesemir when Jaskier perks his head up, glancing at something in the distance. None of them seem phased, used to Jaskier’s wandering gaze and whimsical wonder about the snow covered trees. 

“Umm, I don’t mean to interrupt, terribly sorry, but- what in the devil’s name is that?” Jaskier’s tone is still polite, but Geralt glances up when he hears the scared warble and sour spike in his scent. He follows Jaskier’s gaze, raising an eyebrow, but he catches sight of what Jaskier is asking about at the same time his medallion gives a faint hum. Lambert, Eskel and Vesemir’s hands go up at the same time, clutching the medallion and eyes raising to the sky in unison. 

“DOWN.” Vesemir booms, leaping away from the group at the same time Lambert lunges for Geralt. Eskel is the closest to Jaskier and grabs him in a tight hold, crushing him against his chest and crouching low as a wall of orange blazes bright around them. Jaskier stares in abstract horror as enormous, wickedly sharp claws rake over the shield that Eskel has thrown up around them. He feels Eskel shudder with the effort of keeping his shield intact for another blow, and Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut in fear. He hears the faint tinkle of glass cracking, feels a breeze and listens as Eskel’s shield shatters around them. 

Whatever the beast is, it flies straight toward them, and Jaskier opens his eyes wide to take in what might be his last memory. Its skin is leathery, with a horn that juts proudly from the point of its beak and sweeps back toward its neck. Jaskier faintly recognizes it as a forktail, something Geralt has fought hundreds of times. What is it doing here?

Faint orange shimmers around them, Eskel slowly rebuilding his shield, and just as the forktail dives, claws outstretched, Lambert and Geralt dive into the way, Geralt throwing a blistering wave of fire and Lambert throwing his hands up as Eskel’s weaker attempt solidifies rapidly into a full shield once again. Together the two of them combine their strength, holding the shield as Geralt uses another molten blast of Igni to send the forktail screeching away. Vesemir joins Geralt in watching the beasts retreat, and only when Vesemir turns to nod at them do Lambert and Eskel drop the shield. Eskel groans, letting go of Jaskier and stumbling back a couple of steps. Jaskier isn’t sure whether his hands are shaking because of the near death experience or the cold, but he doesn’t want to spend the time figuring it out. 

Instead, he turns and throws his arms around Eskel, squeezing him tight and pressing a kiss to his cheek. Lambert grouses behind them, rolling his eyes. “Oh sure, give him attention.”

Jaskier releases Eskel only once the scarred man gives him a quick squeeze, then he moves to Lambert and does the same thing. Lambert, for all his bravado, squeezes Jaskier just as tight and blushes when Jaskier plants a kiss on the corner of his mouth. Jaskier grins at the sigh of a witcher blushing, but then Geralt catches him gently by the waist and steals the last of his breath with a very sweet, very thorough kiss. Jaskier is sure that Lambert will say something, but they all seem relieved that Jaskier is safe, and Lambert has already gotten his hug. Jaskier doesn’t move away from Geralt when they finally pull apart, knowing he won’t get very far anyway. Jaskier stays pressed against Geralt’s side as they all turn to Vesemir, who’s still watching the skyline with a hand rubbing along his jaw in contemplation. 

“The snowfall must have taken its source of food. Geralt, Lambert, follow the scent and track it down. We don’t need it snatching up any livestock, or one of us.” Vesemir doesn’t say anyone in particular, but they all know that the draconid was after one person this time. 

“Fuckin finally, something to do around here. Let’s go before it gets dark.” Geralt nods, arm tightening around Jaskier for a moment before Eskel comes to guide him back inside. Both Lambert and Geralt work quickly to don their armor and collect what potions they'll need for the fight, and Jaskier stands by the door, waving them off when they finally head out. 

Once the doors to the keep closes Jaskier bites his lip, whispering to himself. “They’ll be okay, right?” 

It feels silly to worry about them, especially when it’s a single forktail and there’s two of them, but Jaskier’s stomach is in knots and he has a horrible sinking feeling in his chest.

                                                           -*-

They’re gone for 6 and a half days. Jaskier counts every minute that goes by, working as best he can to keep up with the excess chores while they’re gone. Every night he falls into bed exhausted and wakes up crying, Eskel sitting on the edge of his bed and petting his hair. By the third day Eskel makes himself a bed on the floor, holding Jaskier’s hand so that he’ll sleep through the night. Jaskier tries to get him up into the bed, but Eskel refuses and makes himself comfortable on the carpet. 

Jaskier is in the main hall, sweeping and trying not to mope when the door creaks, pushed by a heavy gust of icy wind. Jaskier feels magic shiver over his skin, and he runs to pull the door open, catching the witcher that sags into his arms immediately. Jaskier hoists him up, arms trembling only for a moment as he lugs the freezing, heavy witcher over to the fire and deposits him in a chair. He calls for Eskel then Vesemir, yelling as loud as he can and knowing they’ll come running. Lambert’s ankle is twisted savagely to the right, the angle all wrong, and Jaskier’s heart thunders in his ears. He’s covered in blood, but it’s frozen and Jaskier can see that the skin underneath has begun to turn blue. Jaskier strains to pull the chair closer to the fire, needing to get him thawing as quickly as he can.

“Jaskier, what is-” He doesn’t look up from where he’s coasting shaking hands over Lambert’s face, checking for breathing and using the warmth of his fingers to melt the snow sticking to his face. Lambert stares glassily, eyes half wild and none of his awareness fully on any of them. “Go get water, not the hot, the cold. Towels too.”

“But-” 

“Jask. Go.” Eskel’s voice is firm, and he does as he’s told, hurrying to go find a bucket of water that hasn’t been too close to the fire. While he’s searching for clean towels he hears a snap and Lambert howling in pain. That has him scurrying back with whatever towels are cleanest and the water, hurrying back to Lambert’s side. Lambert’s ankle is back in the right orientation, he can see that much, and Eskel is beginning to strip away layers of his armor as the blood melts and releases. Once he’s got Lambert naked in the chair Eskel has Jaskier wipe him down, getting any remaining chunks of ice off of him with the cold water while he pokes and prods, searching for any more broken bones. Thankfully, his ankle seems to have gotten the brunt of it, and Eskel forces a dose of Swallow down along with a shot of mahakam spirits.

Lambert coughs as the alcohol burns down his throat, but Eskel gives him another, and soon Lambert begins to shiver. Jaskier lays a towel over Lambert’s lap when Vesemir finally comes in, shrewd eyes assessing the situation before he moves to add a few more logs to the fire. It roars hotter than before and Jaskier is beginning to sweat, beads dripping down his face. At least he thinks he is until Lambert weakly reaches up, using an icy finger to wipe away a tear that’s escaped. “Crying over me, little lark?”

“Who would cry over you?” Jaskier says weakly, sniffling and wiping at the tears that have been steadily falling down his cheeks. Lambert huffs out a laugh, closing his eyes for a moment as he shifts, hissing at the pain that shoots up his leg from his ankle. 

“You did good, Jaskier.” Vesemir’s voice is soft, and the bard sniffles, leaning into the hand the old witcher lays on his shoulder. “He didn’t make it, did he?”

Lambert shakes his head, jaw clenching, and Jaskier looks up between the two of them. It takes a few moments for Jaskier to understand, and he shakes his head, slowly at first, and then faster until he’s dizzy and can’t think right and he has to take a seat next to Lambert on the floor. 

“We cornered the forktail, but the damn thing screamed and brought an avalanche down on our asses.” Lambert glances over at Jaskier, hesitating before he reaches to take Jaskier’s hand and hold it tight in his. “Geralt was closer than I was, and he blasted me away from the worst of it with Aard. My ankle got crushed by falling rocks, and it took me a while to make my way back here.”

“You left him there?” Jaskier looks up at Lambert, fury and sorrow and heartbreak etched across his face. “H-he must be so scared. What if he’s still out there?”

“His body is.” Lambert squeezes his hand tight, and Jaskier looks up to see tears glimmering in his eyes too. Eskel comes over, crouching by the two of them, and places a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and Lambert’s knee. Vesemir moves to stand behind Lambert’s chair, not touching anyone but sharing in the moment as Jaskier begins to weep. His shoulders shake with the effort of his sobs and he curls up, pressing his forehead against Lambert’s hand and feeling his heart break in his chest. It splinters and stabs at every part of him, and Jaskier isn’t sure how he’s going to piece it back together. No one says anything else to him, letting him cry and scream and deny that Geralt is gone. 

The fire has burned low and Lambert is sufficiently warm by the time that Jaskier speaks again. Eskel is meditating beside them and Vesemir has retreated to deal with his grief alone, but the two still with him perk up to listen.  “We have to go get his- body.” 

Jaskier’s voice breaks again and he chokes back more sobs, looking up to find Lambert staring back, eyes fierce with grief. “We will.”

Lambert has Jaskier and Eskel help him hobble up to bed and get a fire going, never objecting when Jaskier crawls in beside him and Eskel makes himself comfortable on the floor. Jaskier shivers despite still being fully clothed, and Lambert wraps an arm around him, closing his eyes and holding the bard until he falls asleep, spent. 

                                                          -*- 

Jaskier is already awake, cloak draped around him and boots on when Lambert wakes up that morning. Lambert takes one look at him and begins to get dressed as well, regardless of the way his ankle twinges. Another dose of Swallow has his pain melting away and his ankle as strong as before, and they wake Eskel to get ready as well. Jaskier bounces from foot to foot as they head down the stairs, frowning when Lambert stops to gather jerky, water and some other emergency supplies. He isn’t sure what it’s going to be like outside getting back, but Jaskier isn’t going to be able to push nearly as hard as they can and Lambert knows this. 

Despite the fragility of Jaskier’s humanity, he ends up being the one to urge the others on, fists clenched in his gloves and cheeks flaming red in the cold winter air. Lambert remembers his way easily, and there hasn’t been that much snowfall that their footprints have disappeared, so Jaskier can follow along even without supernatural senses. The trek only takes them a day to get out to where the avalanche has dumped snow and rocks into the countryside, and Jaskier sleeps fitfully under the trees for an hour or two at the max. 

They pick their way through the snow around rocks after Lambert insists they eat something when Jaskier cries out. He takes off running, throwing snow up around him with two witchers on his heels. They nearly bowl him over when he skids to a stop, staring at the carnage around him. Off to the left, pinned between two rocks is the carcass of the forktail, blood frozen in sheets across the snow. Somehow it didn’t get buried in the avalanche, but Lambert and Eskel are looking around with wide, astonished eyes as if Jaskier is missing something important. All the trees around them are missing branches on the side facing the clearing, and if there were any trees in the middle of the clearing they’ve found, there aren’t anymore, just jagged stumps poking up through the snow. 

“What?” Jaskier demands, breathless and heart pounding in his chest. 

“It’s a Quen circle.” Eskel whispers, sharing a pained look with his brother. 

“A what?” Jaskier is lost, and he looks around at all the destruction and the body of the forktail. 

“When our shields break, they don’t just go away. If we concentrate hard enough, we can use the momentum of whatever hit us and feed it into the shield. It causes an explosion matching the energy of whatever hit the shield last.” Eskel’s voice is cowed by awe, and Jaskier thinks he’s beginning to understand. 

“So this-”

“He somehow held out long enough for the whole damn avalanche to crash down on him before blowing his shield.” Lambert confirms, pride shining in his voice.

“Could he have survived?”

“The blast? Maybe, but I don’t know how long he held out before letting go, and if he was weak enough…” Eskel is still looking over the clearing, trying to gauge the power of the blast fully.

“It was long enough for me to crawl away. I never heard his shield break..” Lambert takes another glance around before stalking for the middle of the clearing. “C’mon assholes, lets sweep the area and see if we can find him.”

“Right.” Jaskier’s voice is thick in his throat, and though he’s shivering and can hardly feel his toes he gets to work. They work their way out slowly, each taking a third of the area and walking along their set path. Lambert and Eskel have both gone over their chunks twice by the time that Jaskier has gone through once, but Jaskier doesn’t have witcher eyes or their sense of smell, so he takes his time. He gets to the edge of the clearing where the trees have survived the blast relatively unscathed and is about to turn back when he’s blinded by sun reflecting off the worn silver of a pommel. “Guys! I- I found him.”

His voice drops to a whisper and he walks a few steps into the deeper snow. By the time that Lambert and Eskel join him he’s elbow deep, tossing handfuls as fast as he can. The snow is light, thank Melitele, but there’s a lot, and it takes the three of them to uncover him. He’s surrounded in a shell of ice that Lambert has to use the handle of his dagger to break through to finally get to him. Geralt is curled up in a tight ball, chin tucked against his chest and swords still in their sheaths on his back. Snow sticks to his armor and clumps in his hair, and he’s paler than Jaskier has ever seen him. His lips are blue, snow sticking delicately to his lashes, and Jaskier lets out a shaky sob at the sight of him. He reaches to brush snow from Geralt’s hair and cries out as the scent of singed leather and skin fills the air. 

Eskel takes Jaskier’s hand, yanking his glove off to look at the damage. Two of the fingers on his left hand are red and blistered, and the fingers on his gloves have disintegrated in the spots that Jaskier came into contact with Geralt’s body. Eskel grabs some bandages from the pack, glad that Lambert thought to bring them. They don’t have any salve with them, but Eskel wraps Jaskier’s fingers anyway and gives him one of his gloves. 

Jaskier doesn’t know what’s going on anymore, but Lambert and Eskel share a glance and Lambert sighs heavily. “I’ll take the first round.”

“First round of what?” Jaskier doesn’t know what they’re going to do since no one can touch him, but Jaskier watches as a pale orange sleeve envelopes Lambert, encasing him in a shimmering full body shield. The younger witcher hoists Geralt’s curled form up into his arms, grunting at the weight and the constant hissing of Geralt coming in contact with his shield. 

“Get the fuck going.” Lambert hisses, and Jaskier stumbles up and away, back toward the keep in the distance. They make it back in half the time it took them to get out to the site, Jaskier refusing to stop. He insists that if Eskel and Lambert have to exhaust themselves maintaining a constant shield and passing Geralt between them the least he can do is keep up. They’re almost there when Lambert stumbles, shield flickering and arms shaking. He sets Geralt in the snow, panting, and Jaskier touches his shoulder. “I can’t keep it up anymore.”

“Let me.” Jaskier says, stepping up and crouching beside Geralt’s prone form.

“You can’t use signs, and you don’t have a witcher’s strength.”

“No, but you two can. Do you have enough strength between you to keep me covered?”

“I don’t know for how long.” Eskel chimes in, looking just as ragged as Lambert. 

“Then we’d better hurry. Ready?” The brothers share a look before nodding, and Jaskier feels the intimate press of magic as their shield falls into place. Jaskier lifts Geralt in his arms, adjusting his grip and then setting off up the hill toward the keep. Jaskier can feel Geralt in his arms, a raging inferno that constantly pings at the shield around him. Jaskier pushes on regardless of his thighs burning and his knees going weak. Lambert and Eskel bolster their shield when they finally get into the courtyard, waving Vesemir off when he moves to help. Jaskier’s gaze is set singularly on the doors of the keep, and he hardly notices when Vesemir’s magic adds a layer to the thinning shield that Lambert and Eskel had been holding for the past hour. 

“Put him by the fire.” Jaskier can’t feel his arms anymore, hasn’t been able to for the past half hour, and he’s clumsy as he sets Geralt down, nudging him a bit closer to the fire. Vesemir kneels down beside the two of them, and Jaskier hears the tinkling of glass as the shield around him falls away and Jaskier sags, collapsing onto the floor. Lambert and Eskel jerk forward, trying to catch him, but Vesemir holds a hand out for them to stop. “He’s just exhausted.”

“What about Geralt?” Vesemir looks him over, hands protected as he assesses the damage. After a while Vesemir sits back on his heels, sighing and standing up. 

“He’s alive.” Jaskier stirs at those words, arms quaking as he tries to lift himself off the floor. Vesemir hoists him up into a sitting position, and Jaskier tries weakly to grip his hand. “I don’t know that he’ll wake, though.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know what he’s done to himself.” The admission is startling; Vesemir has been alive longer than any of them, has trained countless scores of witchers, but what he sees here has him baffled. “It seems to be a form of meditation, but this here,” Vesemir gestures to the shield that flares up whenever his hand strays too close. “I don’t know how he’s managed to do this, let alone maintain it.”

“But he could wake up?”

“If he can find his way back to us.” Vesemir nods, not wanting to give hope where there is none but trusting in Geralt to do the impossible, as he’s done many times before. Lambert and Eskel are able to wrestle Geralt’s armor and equipment off him, leaving him just in his regular clothes. The armor is near ruined from the cold press of all that snow anyhow, and they won’t be able to properly repair it until they go down the mountain in the spring.

                                                         -*-

They take turns peeking to see if he’s moved as they go about their chores for the next month, and every night Jaskier sets up a bedroll and tucks himself as close as he can get without being burnt. They operate without him truly here during the worst month of the winter, struggling to keep up with the work that needs to be done with a pair of hands missing. Jaskier spends most of his time when he isn’t working sitting next to Geralt, talking or singing or just sitting nearby, staring into the fire and sniffling softly as he cries. They keep it roaring constantly, hoping that the heat will help. Geralt’s color comes back slowly over the course of the month, until all the snow is melted off of him and his lips are the same dusky pink that Jaskier remembers.

Jaskier is tucked away for the night, staring at Geralt’s face and wishing he could trace the straight line of his nose or even kiss his forehead and not get hurt. A couple of tears splash onto his cheeks, and he’s so tired of crying, but every time he looks at Geralt prone on the floor he feels his sorrow choking him, tearing and clawing at his chest in an effort to get free. 

“Come back. Please.” Jaskier whispers, scooting a bit closer and reaching out a wavering hand. He feels the heat of the shield and stops just shy, fingers poised to touch his cheek. He waits a second, then drops his hand, resting it on the floor between them and laying his head down to sleep. He smiles when fingers interlock with his, squeezing gently. Jaskier’s sleepy mind doesn’t comprehend the touch for a moment, but when he does his eyes fly open. “Geralt?”

Geralt is still curled up, but he’s reached a hand out and clutches Jaskier’s own hand like a lifeline. The red hot barrier around him melts away slowly, starting at his fingertips, and  Jaskier watches in mute shock as Geralt blinks sleepily and yawns, stretching out and sitting up. “You’re on the floor.”

“You’re on the floor.” Jaskier replies wetly, using the heel of his free hand to press at one eye. He gives a broken sob and crawls into Geralt’s waiting arms, tucking his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck as sobs wrack his body. Geralt rocks him, petting his hair and murmuring sweet nothings as Jaskier’s fingers curl in his shirt. Eskel and a very sleepy Lambert find them that way, Jaskier curled up asleep in Geralt’s arms and Geralt staring into the fire. His eyes are haunted when he looks to his brothers, and he presses a finger to his lips to keep them quiet. 

“How did I get back here?” He keeps his voice low, not wanting to wake Jaskier. “All I remember is the snow, and then the blast.”

Lambert plops down on Jaskier’s bedroll, dragging Eskel with him and grumbling at being awake for questions. “We carried your fatass back. Wasn’t easy either, we couldn’t touch you without using Quen, and by the time we got back Jaskier had to carry you the rest of the way inside.”

“He can’t use Quen.” Geralt points out, Lambert rolling his eyes. 

“Yeah no shit. Eskel and I had to hold together a shitty ass shield around the lark to keep him from getting burnt to a crisp. Mind telling us what that whole ‘burning anyone who touches’ shit was?”

Geralt is silent for a while, as if still shaking off the cold, before he answers. “A safety net.”

“But how?” Eskel chimes in, glancing at Lambert to tell him to be patient. 

“It’s- Quen. Just hotter.” Geralt seems uncomfortable trying to explain, as if he isn’t quite sure how it works himself. Geralt sighs, shushing them when Jaskier stirs and nuzzles into his neck, seeking warmth. “How long was I out?”

“Almost a month, give or take a couple days. Really scared the shit out of us, you know.” It’s the closest Lambert will get to saying he was worried, but Geralt hears the meaning all the same. Eskel waves a hand, as if wiping away the past month of worry.

“Just glad to have you back, wolf. Took a while." It sounds like a statement, but Geralt can tell they want to know more and he feels it's only right to share what he can.

"The strain of holding all the energy in the shield was… It's- I'm not sure how to explain. Imagine holding a shield against a bomb, and then multiplying it by a hundred."

"That's… near impossible, even for me." Eskel frowns, trying to imagine holding that much energy for as long as Geralt did. 

"I didn't think it would work." Geralt admits, glancing back toward the fire. "Channeling all the energy back out through the shield to release it put me into an immediate meditative state. Most of my major organs shut down and my heart nearly stopped. I used the- safety net to draw energy into my body again. Just enough to keep my heart going and kickstart my major organs until the snow melted or you guys came back."

"I think that's the most you've ever said." Lambert jumps when Jaskier speaks, but Geralt doesn't seem surprised and Eskel hides his reaction much better. 

"You weren't awake to say it for me." Geralt replies, and Jaskier chuckles quietly.

"Could you show me the shield again? On just your hand?"

Geralt grimaces, reaching out and concentrating. The same barrier as before spreads across his hand, but it's weak, and Geralt lets it drop quickly. "It's usually for emergencies only."

"Think I could try?" Eskel seems almost excited about doing something different with his signs, and Geralt lifts a shoulder to say why not? 

"If anyone can figure out how I've done it, it would be you."

[thesouthernpansy]

your hand, my hand (to hold it)

artemy burakh/daniil dankovsky

2,556 words

(here on ao3)

Dankovsky stands at the top of the staircase in his shirtsleeves. He's changed, again, from the last time you saw him, his eyes darker and his jaw weaker, but he takes your hands in his cool, gloved palms and tuts in that same distant, put-upon way he has.

“When was the last time you cleaned your fingernails?”

Even in pitch darkness, with your eyes closed, you could find your way back to him by his scolding.

“I think I have a few crumbs under there, I was saving them for later.”

Dankovsky tsks, not without humor. “I expect you'll try to convince me it's economical. Are you hungry? I have some bread and—well, I've been told it's trout, but who can tell these days. Some kind of smoked fish. It's yours if you'll wash up. Quid pro quo.”

Are you hungry? You wonder at his formality; you've been hungry for days.

His back is to you while he digs through his doctor's bag, the blades of his shoulders, the knife of his spine. Your fingers itch with the urge to touch, to run the pad of your thumb against his angles like it could draw blood.

“The townspeople are finally rubbing off on you, huh?”

Distracted thought creases a line between Dankovsky's brows. “Ah, the local bartering custom. You'll have to more fully explain the precise mechanics of the process to me at some point.”

It's heartening and unexpected progress, from him, the admission—the interest—though you refrain from saying as much.

True to his word, he sets out a generous heel of bread and paper-wrapped package bleeding fish-smelling oil. Leans his hip against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms across his narrow chest. The fine visible bones of his wrist, the pale exposed forearm, you could close your whole fist around them with space to spare.

“Where did all this come from, anyway? The Kains?”

Dankovsky stills, a sudden subtle tenseness, his gloves drawn tight across the knuckles.

“The doctor's fund,” he says shortly.

“Ah.” Guilt seeps through to tangle with the warmer sensation rising in your chest.

Dankovsky gestures dismissively, turning away. “Don't give me that martyred expression. You come to the hospital or you don't, all that's important is that progress is being made on the vaccine.”

“The panacea,” you correct him.

“Suum cuique. Do we have a deal or don't we?”

“The healer's hands are always bloodiest,” you say, half teasing.

Dankovsky satisfies it with a long-suffering sigh. “Don't you mean muddiest? By the looks of it you've been up to your elbows looking for your steppe herbs all morning.”

Always your herbs, an arrogant dismissal as if he doesn't by now have ample first-hand experience with the effectiveness of your painkillers, at least. It frustrates him doubly, you've gathered in time, that you insist on wasting your time with flowers rather than focus on the infinitely more practical and productive collection of infected human samples that Dankovsky continues to find himself unanimously denied.

Silence settles between you with gauzy tangibility, like the pest-thick air of the infected Bridge Square, grey-green and swimming-still.

An idea comes to you. Against the growing distance you lift your grime-streaked hands, palms open, up.

“With this I give you company. The road you walk is dangerous, but you don't walk it alone. I go with you, my help and my guidance.”

“Your guidance,” says Dankovsky, mostly to himself.

“What do you give me, oynon?”

Movement at the corner of his mouth. “Food. I had thought I made that clear.”

“A thing can be more than it is, more than an object to take up space in your hand. To give and take is to connect, a feeling or intention, or...” you falter, trying to remember. “Warmth. Kindness.”

Dankovsky bites out a laugh at that, harsh and short. “Kindness? In this town?”

“Comfort,” you persist. “Joy.”

“Nothing anyone has given me in this town has brought me joy.” He stops to look at you, then, though, to truly look. “I ought to give you rest, if I thought that you would take it.”

“You'd have to have it, first, to give it away.” Both of you well aware that this is the closest to rest you're likely to get today, and even that more than either of you can really afford.

Dankovsky turns towards the window, his jawline a taut cord of tension. His profile backlit with sickly light, casting him angular, severe, the unexpected stranger in the near-dark of Rubin's rooms. Near the hollow of his throat, the shadow of dark unshaven stubble, like a bruise.

“For all that it matters. What's the actual purpose of this asinine exercise?”

“I told you—” You reach out; his hair curls damply by his ear, the pulse quickening beneath your fingertips. “It's about connection.”

Prickling, “Warmth, yes, I remember. Here—”

He takes your wrist. Then, from the little shaving kit on the windowsill, a thin wedge of soap, soft from use. Presses it into your hand.

“Take...care.”

You have held human hearts in your hands, before—hot, and with the echo of beating still in them. Maybe this is nothing like that, but it echoes all the same.

“Thank you, oynon.”

“You're welcome...emshen.” At your smirk, “What? Didn't I pronounce it correctly?”

You shake your head, laughter on your tongue. “It's the vowels. They're tricky, if you didn't grow up with the language.”

“Don't you patronize me.” He swats you away and goes, muttering the word under his breath, to collect a washbasin and pitcher from beneath the bed. They're a matched set, not poor quality but plainly in disrepair, the enamel pattern chipped and cloudy. Dankovsky sloshes the basin half-full, notices your watching.

“Concerns, Burakh?”

“No, it looks clean.”

“Of course it's clean. I saw to its collection personally. Eva has been surprisingly diligent about boiling all the water she can gets her hands on, as well, for whatever good it does.”

“Cholera dies in boiled water,” you say absently. For a brief, suspended moment in Dankovsky's place you see the frightened woman in the Flank, her flat terrified eyes, her trembling fists.

Dankovsky frowns in dim recognition. “Someone else told me that recently. I can't recall who it was.”

“Maybe it was a dream.” Quick, careful efficiency as you strip away enough of your soiled smock to bare your arms.

“I have been having the strangest dreams,” he admits, voice soft. “Ever since I arrived here. I dream about walking, mostly, out across the steppe. I'm up to my knees in water and trying to reach something on the very edge of the horizon, or perhaps it's the horizon itself? And the sky is always red, dark red like blood, and I can feel in my bones that something is missing, as though the moon might not be there if I could think to look for it.”

Frown deepening, he shakes his head as if to clear the image. “In any case, perhaps it was a dream, then. I've been experiencing a great deal of déjàvu lately.”

The basin water murkies like a pre-storm dawn, greying lather sloughed away with the days' mud and blood and sweat. Like peeling back dead skin to see something fresh and pink underneath, new nerve endings, raw and receptive. It feels wrong, somehow. Dark water, clean hands.

“How do you imagine the Town will think of you when this is all over, after you're gone?”

“I don't,” says Dankovsky, clipped. “There are far more consequential matters that call for my attention. Who has time to worry about the opinions of small minds, with so much to do?”

Sanctimonious bastard.

“I do.” Gripping the edges of the washbasin like you could snap it in two, satisfying in the imagined sound of shattering, Dankovsky's startled expression, a rush of movement across the Stillwater's floorboards.

“Well, it's different for you, obviously. Being a local.”

You step away, scrubbing wet hands across your face. “I'm glad at least someone thinks that of me.”

Anger ebbs away in the ensuing silence. Then, the staccato click of Dankovsky's polished shoes accompanied by the faint sough of cloth. A towel, threadbare and yellowed, held like a surrender. You acquiesce, and Dankovsky pointedly avoids your gaze as he dries your hands with studious care.

“If you're...unsatisfied, here, you could always come to the Capital with me, when I return. Thanatica, or whatever's left of it, could benefit from your...unique perspective.”

His right hand in your left, points of articulation lined up—palm, wrist, knuckle, rib—and a warm thrum under your skin, heady and thick, like twyre bloom.

“That's a generous offer, oynon. You're right, though, I am a local. My place is here.”

“Yes,” he says. “well. I won't try to change your mind, if you're—”

“You could stay.”

Sudden, startled offense and dazed uncomprehending, Dankovsky's expression caught halfway between a sneer and something terrified. Defensive, cornered.

“I—here? No, what would I even—? No, no, I can't.”

“If you say so. I'll probably try to change your mind. Not right now. Later, when it matters.”

Dankovsky's eyes are sharp when they meet yours, lit with keen, unmasked curiosity. The full weight of his attention pierces like a pin punched through a beetle's jeweled carapace for display. A bright spot of pain in your chest, velvet at your back.

“You won't,” he says, weight in his words so you could almost see them falling out, bitten clean.

Fondness blooms in you at the thawing unease with which he holds himself, like a man who has forgotten how to be warm coming in from the cold. Reticent in a reluctant, guarded way you recognize, of all people, from Murky.

“I'll try anyway.”

A thin, unsteady laugh, reedy and nasal, and thenhe softens, all at once, deflating slightly, like a weight borne across his shoulders has been lifted free from him.

“Just so. Dum spiro, spero.”

“I don't know what that means.”

“I think you know,” he says carefully, “enough.”

Clearly, like a memory in your mind's eyes you see yourself kissing him, again and again, harsh and then tender, then tenderer still—the copper of blood on your teeth, the hazy, cooling steppe at dusk, the terrible sweet fever smell you know so well—a rush, like wind, like falling from a height, and here, constant, the place where the parallel nets of your lives snag and tangle.

Which is to say: what follows flows with the ease of the inevitable.

Dankovsky looks up, you look down.

The two of you meet in the middle.

The kiss starts slow, chaste and unsure and so nice; a pleased, helpless little sound escapes from you before you can think to stop it, and you feel Dankovsky's lips part slightly to form some wry response. You take it as an invitation, licking into the heat of his mouth, fingers threaded in the short hair at the nape of his neck. He shudders against you and moans, hitched breath and a deep, dreamy sigh that resonates like struck steel, pools low in your gut, molten and dark. Grasping, his hands find your waist, slide upwards to reel you close and keep you there.

Against your palm, the rabbit-pace of his pulse. Yours, sheltered against it. Dankovsky kisses you in the dim, stale Stillwater, and you think, the left and right hand. You think, yes.

Understanding: you are separate things like two hairs on a bull's back are separate, his heartbeat ending where yours begins without distinction. In the shared breaths caught between you, it's easy to believe that you could choose this—one vast, drumming heartbeat, one fast, endless line, strung through you soft and whole, tying indelibly together what you've feared would be inevitably torn apart. That after loss, losing, knowing what might still be lost, you could carve a harbor in the quiet and keep it shielded because you wanted it enough.

Behind you, the clock chimes the new hour. The adrenaline pumping in your blood start to sour.

“Fuck,” says Dankovsky, teeth scraping your lip.

You swallow thickly. “Is it two already?”

“Three, I think.” Focused on a point past your shoulder, his hands still under your shirt and his eyes already terribly far away.

“Shudkher.”

“You have somewhere else need to be.”

“I—yes.”

He nods, stepping away. His warmth goes with him. Clearing his throat, righting his clothes, you watch his expression shutter closed and feel like a limb that has been too long in a cast, pallid and shriveled and weak. Regret twists its clammy thorns around your heart, but there's nothing you can apologize for, nothing that it would fix.

“I'm sorry,” you say anyway.

Dankovsky shakes his head. “What for? Unless you're responsible for this whole wretched plague I can't accept that from you. And if you are responsible I wouldn't accept it it anyway, my reaction would be the furthest thing from forgiveness. Besides, it isn't as though I don't have work of my own to do.”

He recovers your discarded smock from the floor, gives it a vigorous shake. You take it from him, and he promptly busies himself elsewhere while you redress, the conspicuous return to silence aching in your joints like the promise of rain.

Dankovsky breaks it first. “Here, can you carry this?”

A hastily-wrapped parcel of waxed canvas, secured with a pair of safety pins that recently-acquired instinct hones in on immediately—that girl by the Trammel had been looking for pins, and she'd had a fingernail coin she was willing to trade—so that full focus returns with the thing in your hands and a stiff, dour set to Dankovsky's shoulders, the pull of his mouth. Unreachable, resigned.

“What is it?”

“My side of our bargain.” Hesitant, almost amused. “You didn't think I'd try to rescind our deal just because you can't stay for tea. Tell me you'll remember to eat it before it spoils.”

“I'll do my best.” Shifting aside bundles of twyre to tuck the food into your bag, as if you won't be tearing it open again as soon as you're outside.

“See that you do. I...be careful out there, Burakh.”

“You too, oynon.”

A fluid moment, blood pulled through the chambers of a heart, singing and open like the bare vein of Mother Boddho at the base of a tree. Pregnant with the promise of movement, the exposed unspoken, a restlessness that settles, itching, into the red of your marrow.

You wonder if Dankovsky would let you kiss him goodbye.

“Did you need something else, or are you just going to stand there hulking behind me while I work?”

The skin of tension splits, relief trickling out in a thin line.

“I'm going, I'm going, no need to force me out.”

“As if I could.” The formality of irritation over unmistakable affection.

You reach out and take his hand. Dankovsky watches warily, frowning as you peel back the edge of the clean black glove, but makes no move to stop you. The bare cradle of his palm still smells faintly of leather when you curve towards it, pressing your lips against the skin.

Dankovsky's eyes don't leave you even after you release him, fingers curling closed.

“Warmth,” he says softly, “yes, I see.”

[nahimjustaworm]

These Hands Can’t Hold His Heart

BakuDeku Fanfic

By WorminaWall on AO3

30k

9 Chapters - Completed

Angst | Pining | Time Skips | Eventual Happy Ending

Rated M

Chapter One

Bakugou is no stranger to pain.

Given his Quirk, pain is a part of his DNA. His climb to the top of his third year class has come with plenty of scrapes and bruises and he’s familiar with hurting other people. Pain, in varying degrees, from varying people, has been part of his life since he was a child. He likes to think that he’s pretty good at tolerating it. He’s not some fucking crybaby who can’t take a punch. He can handle it, and he can hide it. He’s gotten good at hiding it- years of practice helps with that- so much so that he sometimes forgets he feels pain at all.

Sometimes, though, that pain bubbles up in unexpected moments and knocks him off guard. It’s not like any pain he’s ever experienced before, but he’s familiar with it. It doesn’t come in the form of a punch, or a blast, or anything of the sort. Its weapon is shy laughs, determined eyes, freckled cheeks and crooked fingers. A sideways glance. A voice saying a name he has no right being called anymore. The pain of this doesn’t cut him like a knife, it’s not sharp and quick, it emerges from inside his chest, an innate part of him, squeezing his insides until he feels like he can’t breathe. Sometimes it only lasts for a moment, once the glance has been broken, or the freckles turn away. Sometimes it lasts into the night, where he’s laying on his bed, curled up on his side, clutching around his body like he wants to crush that dull ache out of him or help it finish him off.

Bakugou is no stranger to pain.

He doesn’t know if it’s easier now- nearly three years of living in close proximity, two years of them sorting their shit out, one year of a mutual pact to try being “friends” again. The verdict is out on whether or not he prefers this to their constant fights and outward intolerance of each other. It’s taken them what seems like a lifetime to go back to being able to stand next to each other without starting an argument.

There are times where he thinks he preferred the way it was. The times when Deku smiles after Katsuki says something funny, or when he’s the first person the other tells when he’s figured out a new move, or when his shoulder brushes up against his own when they’re sitting on the couch.

There are also times where he’s convinced that what they are now is better. The times when Deku’s smile makes his eyes crinkle after he says something funny, or how excited he gets when he tells him he’s figured out a new move, or when his shoulder brushes up against his own when they’re sitting on the couch.

Hate is an easier emotion to fake than love is to feel.

-----

Everything is going fine until it’s not. Katsuki’s been hiding the pain that has buried its roots inside him for years, but he’s forgotten that pain like this is a disease and other people carry it too. Hell, he’s the one that sowed it.

Moments of weakness unearth buried memories- trauma reveals trauma. They’re only a few months into being Pro-Heroes, and after everything that’s happened to them, they forget that this world is still new to them. They forget until one day Deku’s staring frozen at the spot where a living, breathing human just was two seconds ago and now they’re not. Katsuki’s not there to see it happen- he works in a different district- but he hears the news report about civilian casualties where Deku is and knows that the other is not okay.

Deku comes stumbling into his apartment later that night, uniform still on, gore and dust still covering him.

“What the hell, Deku?” He says, the usual heat not there in his voice. He stands up, ready to force the other to go home and take a damn shower, when the look in those green eyes locks him in place. They’re unfocused, unseeing, haunted. He’s never seen them look like that before.

“You should have let me do it,” he mumbles, voice hoarse. Katsuki winces slightly at the sound of it.

“Do what, what are you talking-”

“The roof. You should’ve let me jump.” Katsuki’s blood runs cold. He’s buried that memory so far inside him that the feeling of it resurfacing is enough to knock the wind out of him. Words he never meant to say ringing inside his head again.

“Why’re you bringing that up now?” He asks, voice weaker than he’s heard it in a long time. They’ve put a lot of things behind them, an unspoken agreement when they decided they’d try being friends again. Ever since that day, they hadn’t talked about it.

“How can I call myself a hero if I let that happen to that woman. How can I ever be worthy of All Might’s power when I can’t even save someone right in front of me?!” He’s looking up at him now, frantic, like a wounded animal. He’s clutching his chest so tightly that Bakugou can practically feel the bite of Deku’s nails on his own skin. “You shouldn’t have ever saved me- I’m not the hero that All Might thought I was! You were right, why did you have to-”

Izuku’s cut short when Katsuki yanks him into a crushing hug. 

“Don’t fucking say that.” He hears Izuku inhale a shaking breath to protest, but continues. “You’re only human, not even All Might could save everyone every single time.”

“One for All was wasted on me.” He grips onto the back of Katsuki’s shirt as his tears flow freely. “I’m worthless.”

His voice is so small, like they’re back in middle school again. He hates it, it’s like a slap to the face, a testament to the person he was, the person that planted the seed of doubt inside his childhood friend’s head and tended to it so carefully and meticulously until it blossomed into something ugly.

“This isn’t your fault. It happens to every Pro.”

“I’m not just any person, Kacchan! I’m his successor, I’m supposed to save everyone, how can anyone believe in me if I’ve fucked up this fast!” He’s practically screaming, but it’s muffled by Katsuki’s shirt.

“There wasn’t anything you could do- no, shut up. I know people say that when they’re tryin’ to bullshit you, but I'm not a fucking liar. I saw the footage, you were hit with a binding Quirk. You were lucky you weren’t hit by debris too.” Izuku flinches at that, no doubt replaying the scene in his head. Katsuki tightens his grip, not realizing what he's doing. “Go take a fucking shower.”

He releases his hold, but keeps one hand on his shoulder. For an instant he’s being taken back to a familiar position in an empty classroom.

“All Might's never had any regrets choosing you. And you need to stop thinkin’ you’ve got to do this all on your own.” He removes his hand and straightens up. “Go take a shower. I’ll get you a change of clothes.”

“Y-you don’t mind…?” You don’t mind me being here right now? You don’t mind me being in your space unannounced, despite how many times you’ve pushed me away, despite how many times I’ve had doors slammed in my face? All this goes unsaid, but he knows the other is thinking it. Nothing is going to make him stop thinking that things haven’t completely changed- no matter how many times they do this.

“You think I’m going to send you out looking like that, nerd? The press would go ape shit.”

Izuku smiles meekly. “Thanks, Kacchan.”

After he’s clean they lie on the bed next to each other, staring blankly at the ceiling, and Katsuki feels that crushing weight on his chest again. He’s good at hiding it, but that doesn’t mean it ever goes away.

“Kacchan, why did you do it?” He knows what he’s inferring, he had hoped the other would let it go. It’s just a reminder that there’s this void between them still, this gaping hole where the past should be but he ripped it to shred years ago when he had said those unforgivable words and now the hole is bleeding out again or maybe it never cauterized in the first place-

“You know why,” is his response. The weight of those words is crushing- the implications damning, and he knows that deep down Izuku knows what the connotation is.

The shorter boy- man? Are they men now?- hums his reply. They lie there, their hands mere inches away from each other. They used to hold hands. When did they stop? Who initiated their last gentle contact? He knows the answer to that.

“Why do you keep coming back to me?” He whispers finally, almost hoping the other is already asleep. This question doesn’t mean the same thing it did their first year at U.A. 

“You know why.”

Silence envelops them like an old friend.

----

The first year goes by and before he knows it he’s sitting on Shitty Hair’s couch with a cup of something in his hand, half listening to Sero go on about a villain fight he had earlier that week. Most of former class 3-A is here- Katsuki isn’t really keeping track- only knowing that a particular green haired nerd doesn’t seem to have arrived yet. He’s got his elbow on the arm of the chair, chin casually propped up in his hand, eyes slowly surveying the little party Mina’s gathered together. He doesn't know how exactly he ended up here- there was a bribe involved he thinks- but the alcohol is making his head fuzzy and he’s just grateful tomorrow is his day off.

“You know, you’ve sure mellowed out since we met.” Kirishima plops down next to him, drink sloshing around in his cup.

“The fuck are you sayin'?” He grumbles into his palm. Shitty Hair just laughs.

“See, if I would have said anything like that two years ago I would’ve gotten blasted in the face.”

“Too many witnesses,” he replies. They both know it’s a lame excuse- Katsuki’s never given a shit what other people think of him. Well, most other people.

“Yeah okay.” He grins at him. “I’m just saying, before you would have never agreed to come to a party with all of these ‘extras’. I’m really glad you’re here.”

“‘M gettin’ more booze,” is his reply, and he slightly stumbles his way into the kitchen where a makeshift bar has been set up. He’s just finished making his “cocktail”, if it could be called that, when he hears him.

“Sorry I’m late guys.” Katsuki’s not looking over at him yet, but he just knows he’s bashfully rubbing the back of his head. “I just got off my shift.”

He hears Round Face bumble on about something to him, and suddenly he feels nauseated. He wants to back out, change his mind about coming, make up some excuse about needing to leave, fake a villain attack, do something that removes him from this room that’s suddenly shrunk in size. He’s no coward, but the alcohol is muddying up his brain, settling uncomfortably in his stomach, and he doesn’t trust himself to act in his best interest.

He’s considering just escaping out the hallway window when he hears, “Kacchan!” spoken from across the room.

“Excuse me,” he politely says to his friend, his eyes crinkling in the way that makes Katsuki want to punch something. He approaches the other with a smile so genuine Katsuki is sure something's going to get punched now. “I didn’t think you were going to show up!”

He’s not sure how to reply. He calculates the answers in his head, formulating his options, knowing that the easiest is anger or irritation, but the default isn’t what he should choose. He wants to be defensive- he sure doesn’t want to admit the real reason he showed up to be surrounded by a bunch of people he doesn’t give a fuck about.

“N-not that I’m not happy you’re here! I’m glad you showed up! I’m just surprised because Kacchan usually avoids large groups of people, and he hasn’t been in contact with many of us since graduation. It’s interesting that he decided to come today, though maybe because it’s a special occasion and he wants to-”

“Oi, you’re mumbling.”

“Sorry.” He smiles shyly and scratches his cheek. “It’s… it’s nice to see you.”

Pain.

Chest tightening, breath faltering, palms sweating, throat closing- pain, why is there nothing but pain when I see you I can’t stand this pain anymore just stay the fuck away from me so I don’t feel this way I can’t do it-

He downs the rest of his drink. “Yeah, whatever.”

He doesn’t know why he stays. He should have left the moment he had the chance- he shouldn’t’ve come in the first place. He’s screaming at himself inside his head, but his body is moving on its own- he’s pouring more drinks, he’s sitting on the couch, he’s leaning in to conversations he has no right stealing, he’s laughing, he’s stumbling outside with him, he’s walking down the sidewalk, grabbing a scarred arm, pushing his body against the door, fumbling keys, stripping clothes, grabbing at hair, and why the fuck are you doing this you need to stop this why aren’t you listening you fucking idiot how could you do this?!

When he wakes in the morning he instantly runs to the bathroom to retch. Despite purging his insides, he still feels rotted out. He’s pathetic and disgusting and unworthy and selfish and he wants nothing more than to lay on the forest floor and let the moss feast on his rot.

Deku is already gone.

Read the completed fic here >

[jessicajonesrp]

Demise of Dorothy Walker

(continued from previous note)

  “Wait…how many times has she jumped out the window today, exactly?” Trish questioned, tilting her head with some obvious confusion. “Jess, are you aware that windows can be opened before you jump through them, if you’re that opposed to doors?”

 Jessica ignored her, wiggling out of Trish’s loosened embrace and taking several steps back, crossing her arms over her chest as though to defend herself from any further attempts at being given affection. She nodded stiffly at Luke, attempting to take in what he is saying.

 “From what the kid in the apartment said and what I saw on the surveillance film, before he fucking destroyed it, it doesn’t seem like he needs much more than a look. I don’t know, maybe he needs a certain amount of time, or access to his inner rage, who the hell knows. But maybe not. I don’t need anything to jump or punch someone, so why should he?”

 “But you might have limitations that you don’t know about, or some sort of kryptonite that you have to avoid,” Trish pointed out, siding with Luke. “I’ve always told you that you should be doing more to understand your abilities. Who knows, Jess, they could be time limited, you could suddenly lose them one day, or maybe if you use them a certain amount of times they just stop or something. They might even be hurting you internally somehow, every time you jump or hit something, and you don’t realize it until you drop dead some day.”

 “Cheerful,” Jessica said sarcastically. “I’ll cross my fingers, maybe we’ll all be so lucky.”

 “Not funny,” Trish said sharply, narrowing her eyes at her. “I’m serious. You need to understand what has made you what you are, now more than ever. And you need to understand what has made Phillip who he is.”

 “He killed the people who made us who we are,” Jessica pointed out. “What am I supposed to do, search for a secret diary? “Dear diary, today I injected Kangaroo Hulk chemicals into a girl and Pyro chemicals into a boy, I sure hope it causes world chaos?” Something like that?”

  Trish looked at Luke for help, sighing. “I know you’re upset, Jessica,” she said quietly. “But we’re the ones supporting you. We’re the ones trying to help you, so if you’re trying the pushing away thing you love to do, it isn’t working, and it’s not going to make you feel any better. I’m not asking you to be happy, but save some of the venom for the people who deserve it.”

 Jessica’s cheeks reddened, and she swallowed, biting down the inside of her cheeks with shame she didn’t want them to see. She tried to cover it by turning to throw away her now empty bottle.

 “Fine. Guess we backtrack. I’ve got the contact information for the woman who started all this, the wife of the third doctor he killed. Let’s see what sort of contacts she might know to put me in touch with.”

  88

 Six miles away, Phillip Jones and his long term girlfriend, Rikarah Pallaton, were casually seated across each other at the small kitchen table of Rikarah’s apartment, laptops open side by side. Rikarah’s apartment, although not especially large or fancy, was far more comfortable and lived-in looking in its appearance than Phillip’s rented motel room had been, and there are far more indications of a man’s presence within its interior. Before contacting Jessica at all, Phillip had actually first been living there with Rikarah, and he had kept only enough of his belongings at the motel room for daily, necessary use- just enough to make it appear that he had no other place of residence. Although he had spent most nights there in the past several weeks, just in case Jessica or one of her associates happened to be watching him, it was never intended to be more than a temporary cover address.

 The only person he felt himself to belong to was Rikarah, and the only place he wished to reside would be wherever it was she chose. For the past few years he had followed her in her frequent relocations across the country, content to join her and at times assist her in wherever she felt lead to be and whatever she felt lead to do. They had met at a bar some four years ago, on a night that Phillip had intended little more to get drunk and hook up with someone, but it hadn’t been long before he discovered that there was far more to Rikarah, his intended “someone” of the night, then met eye. The dark-haired, pixie-featured beauty with darkly themed tattoos over her torso, barely visible peeking out the edges of her tank top’s neckline, carried far more steely strength and sharply focused intelligence than her slight frame would ever indicate.

 Rikarah, much like his sister, was a self-appointed vigilante, Phillip had discovered over time as she gradually let him into her world and her view of her life’s mission. Although she, unlike Jessica or himself, rarely, if ever, used her own supernatural abilities, and rarely did more for a living than bartend, waitress, or sell her own artwork online or in sidewalk sales, she nevertheless carried a power and purpose that Phillip at first was in awe of, then became seduced into emulating. For the first few years of his adulthood he had drifted, aimless, alone, and feeling that there was nothing to his existence that was worthy. Life held little to interest him, and he felt little connection to the world or anyone in it, even himself.

 Rikarah had changed that. In her quiet, steely-eyed focus on her view of truth and justice, she had changed his life and forever altered its course. She had opened his eyes to the grade power he possessed and the responsibility this charged him with to use it for the world’s benefit. How could he not, when he had so much potential at his disposal?

 Rikarah was physically weaker and smaller, lacked the sort of super powers that could be used on a daily and practical basis for protection or defense, and had no more money or family in the world than Phillip himself; if anything, she had been given far less in the way of advantage. And yet, by the time she was seventeen years old, she had already begun her life’s mission of identifying, and then ending the lives of people too twisted up in their abusive behaviors to deserve them. And she had started out with her very own family.

 Over time, Phillip had come to understand and believe in Rikarah’s view of the world, and to accept her view of his responsibility to it. It was she who had urged him to find those who had persecuted himself in his childhood, to take them out before they could harm others. It was also she who encouraged him to find his sister Jessica and insert himself into her life, to begin to know her- and to gradually bring her to understand their view of the world, in hopes of bringing her to join them.

 They both saw Jessica’s involvement in the death of Kevin Kilgrave as a very promising sign. If she had killed once, for the good of the world, it shouldn’t be too difficult to bring her into accepting the idea of killing again for the same reasons.

 But Jessica had been quicker to catch on than they had expected- too quick, even for the fact of her being a private investigator by living. Phillip blamed Patricia Walker for that. The woman had been interfering with his sister’s life since they were barely teenagers, and now her claws had sunk so deeply into her that Jessica couldn’t seem to separate herself from her influence. Without Trish there, it would be easier to sway Jessica into their way of thinking. And the easiest way to weaken Trish, from what Rikarah and Phillip had come to understand, was to first remove her mother from the picture.

 It would have been done anyway, at some point. It was because of Dorothy Walker that Phillip had grown up apart from his sister, living in abusive homes. It was because of her lies that Jessica had thought him to be dead for more than half his lifetime. She was a liar, a con artist, and a child abuser, an opportunist of the worst kind, even towards her own daughter. The world would not suffer for her loss, and its gains would be considerable.

 88

 The plan was simple. Rikarah had subtly tracked the woman’s routine for the past several days, and when Phillip let her know that the time had come for them to make their move, they arrived separately at her address, following at considerable distance. They had assumed and been correct to see that Dorothy would disregard Trish’s warning for her to leave town, too arrogant to assume anyone could want her dead or be successful in making it happen. Rikarah waited for her outside of her talent studio for up and coming young actors and models as Dorothy made her way to open for the morning, with Phillip following at a distance. As Dorothy moved to unlock the door, clearly intending to go about her day as usual to bully young girls in the name of “career advice and advancement” all while making considerable money, Rikarah called out to her in a cultivated mix of hesitation and urgency, stepping into her peripheral view.

 “Ms. Walker? Ms. Walker- you’re Patsy’s mother, aren’t you? Dorothy Walker?”

 She had deliberately used the name that Dorothy preferred to call Trish rather than Trish’s own preference, in a subtle alignment with the woman. Dorothy turned slightly, narrowing her eyes as she looked Rikarah up and down. Finding her to be physically unthreatening and not recognizable, she raised her eyebrows at her.

 “Yes? Do you or your daughter have an appointment with me today? I don’t take walk ins, young lady, but if you want an appointment for yourself, let me advise you now that you should consider acting over modeling. You have the figure for it, but hardly the height.”

  She turned back to unlock the door, but froze when Rikarah spoke again.

 “Please Ms. Walker, it���s Patsy. She’s…I don’t like to do this, go behind her back, but you’re her mother, and I feel like you should know before anyone else. You have a reputation in this town, you’re so respected, maybe you can do something to help before it’s too late for her-“

 “What’s happened?” Dorothy demanded, spinning around fast and facing Rikarah fully and with intensity. “Keep your voice down, if she’s doing something to ruin her reputation again- we can’t have this discussion out where just anyone can hear! Just who are you anyway?”

 “I’m Emily Oliver,” Rikarah lied smoothly, and when Dorothy looked blank, she added, “I was an extra on It’s Patsy, they used me in party or school scenes a lot. I don’t expect you to remember or know me, Ms. Walker, but I’ve always followed and admired you and Patsy. I hate to see her destroy herself now when you’ve worked so hard to repair her reputation to everyone. That Jessica Jones, she-“

 “I should have known it would have something to do with Jessica,” Dorothy hissed under her breath, shaking her head grimly. “That girl has always been a thorn at my side from the day she- but never mind, we can’t have this conversation out here. Emma, was it? Come inside, before the girls start arriving.”

 She gestured for Rikarah to follow her, and Rikarah started to, then hesitated.

 “Wait- I left my phone in my car. Someone sent me some photos of Patsy, they thought it was funny, I guess, but- maybe if I show you, maybe we can stop them from getting out to the media. Maybe-“

 “Yes, yes, go get your phone, make it quick, now,” Dorothy said impatiently, nodding her head and flapping her hand as though to dismiss the younger woman. “Meet me inside. I’m locking the door, I can’t be having clients come in and overhear this. Ring the doorbell when you’re back, I’ll let you in.”

  This was exactly what Rikarah and Phillip had been hoping for; they couldn’t have planned a better set up themselves. Nodding, biting her lip theatrically, Rikarah turned to walk towards the parking lot, taking her time about it, even as she watched out the corner of her eye to check that Dorothy did indeed go into the building and lock the door behind herself.

 Now it was all up to Phillip. Retrieving her phone, she texted him a single word, “okay,” and he was ready. Exiting Rikarah’s car, even as she slipped inside it, he casually walked past the studio, hands deep in his pockets. To anyone passing by, he would look no more than a person on his way somewhere, uninterested and uninvolved in anything suspicious.

 As he passed directly in front of the front door, he paused, looking towards it. With a few moments of intense concentration, he visualized Dorothy, waiting for Rikarah within. Twenty seconds later, screams burst into the air, and the sound of smoke detectors blared forth shrilly as Dorothy Walker’s skin began to burn.

 With the same casualness as before, Phillip continued to walk, bypassing the dying woman as Rikarah pulled out of the parking lot. Several blocks later, as she stopped at a prearranged stop sign, he slid into the passenger seat beside her. Mission accomplished.